


The Enemy Of My Enemy Is My Friend

by Erea



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Famous Wayne Family, Flirting, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erea/pseuds/Erea
Summary: When Tim Drake, your best friend, is brutally murdered by the Joker, it becomes a lot easier to understand why Jason Todd became Red Hood. It’s impossible to understand why Bruce does nothing.You won’t be able to kill the Joker alone, but luckily for you, Red Hood isn’t opposed to working with someone who has a mutual enemy.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Reader, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Reader, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Reader, Tim Drake/Reader
Comments: 73
Kudos: 217





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys <3 this is my first long work and im hoping it works out well! its probably gonna be angsty as fuck lol but that’s what we’re all here for lbr. anyway if u enjoy pls leave kudos so i write the rest faster lol thank u

Timothy Jackson Drake is pronounced dead at 3:17AM on a Monday. 

You’re on the other side of Gotham when, at 3:21AM, you get the call from Bruce. At first, you think it’s good news - you’ve been hot on the trail of Tim’s disappearance and you’re almost certain you’ll find him that night. You’re in a warehouse scanning blood samples for any trace of his DNA: you know he’s been moved in the last few hours and he’s been causing trouble for whoever’s got him.

It’ll be okay. Red Robin is brave and resilient and smart. He might even manage to escape before you find him.

“Hey, B!”, you chirp into your comms line at 3:21AM. “Tim’s been moved east in the past few hours. There’s a little of his blood here, but a lot more of everyone else’s - I think he’s okay, so we should be able to find him soon.”

Bruce is silent for a moment, and then says carefully, “We found him.”

You grin behind your mask. You knew you had nothing to worry about. “Great! Is he okay? I mean, I guess he’s a little roughed up, but tell him I’m excited to see him and-“

“He’s dead.”

There’s no way you heard that right.

“... What?”, you reply bluntly into the comms unit on your wrist.

Bruce sighs and you swear it’s a little shaky. “Tim’s dead. I’m sending the coordinates to you now. We need you here, now.”

And then the connection cuts off and you’re left in silence in a blood-stained warehouse. The ping of Bruce’s location barely even registers in your ears. _Tim’s dead_. This has to be a trick. Maybe Scarecrow has managed to pump you full of fear toxin without you noticing. You don’t feel any different, and your vitals are all normal - it can’t be Scarecrow.

Maybe Tim’s had to fake it for some reason. You know Joker’s men have taken a particular interest in Red Robin lately, so perhaps it’s part of Tim’s plan to throw them off the scent. Joker’s known to be able to hack into your comm lines, so maybe that’s why Bruce was so abrupt and blatant with you. Maybe this is part of a plan.

That’s it. 

This isn’t real. 

Tim’s okay.

///

The funeral is held on the Friday of that same week. It’s a public service - a public tragedy. The devastating murder of a promising young man, mugged and shot after leaving his office late at night. Gotham is in mourning for the loss of a member of the beloved Wayne family.

It’s a cover story. Of course it is. The world can never know the truth: that Tim was kidnapped by the Joker and tortured for fun and then shot in the stomach and left to bleed out in the middle of a road. Bruce found him not even five minutes after he died. He was posed. His arms spread like a bird in flight and a blood-red smile painted onto his lips.

Gotham will remember Timothy Jackson Drake as a tragic victim of the city’s criminal element. You’ll remember him as Red Robin.

“Just a little longer.”, Dick says to you under his breath over a glass of champagne.

“We’ve already been here for hours.”, you reply. You’re nursing your own glass, and it’s more vodka than anything else.

“It’s important for the public to see this kind of thing.”

“This isn’t a public event.”, you mumble bitterly. Half the people here barely even knew him - never spoke to him outside of business dealings and small talk at galas - didn’t know him how you did. It’s a fucking excuse to party for some of them. 

Dick’s jaw stiffens a little. “Everything is a public event for us. So stop snapping at everyone who comes over here to offer condolences. They mean well, you know.”

You sip at your drink. “It doesn’t make it any easier for us.” And, when Dick doesn’t answer but you see his lip begin to tremble, “Fine. But you’re taking me home before the hour’s up.”

Dick leaves you, soon, to speak to the guests at the wake. Him and Bruce have always been the charmers out of all of you, the ones that the press lap up, and it’s probably best that they’re the face of the family. Especially in situations like these. All you want to do is punch everyone right in the fucking face.

You wonder if Bruce ever expected to lose another son. He’s dealing with it as gracefully and tactfully as he can be expected to be - at least in the eyes of the media - and he’s been graciously accepting the condolences of the guests all day. But you know that he won’t sleep for days at a time, and he’ll spend weeks holed up in the cave looking over security footage of what happened, and he’ll never forgive himself.

He never forgave himself for Jason Todd. You never met Jason; he’d already passed away by the time you and Tim moved to Gotham, and you’d only known about him what you’d gleaned from tabloids and news reports.

Bruce kept a photo of him above his computer in the Batcave. It had never made sense to keep it there, of all places, instead of in his wallet or by his bed, until a long while later when Dick had pulled you aside and explained everything to you. _Robin. Joker. Red Hood._

Tim. The new Robin. And then Red Robin. A bird with his wings clipped.

Dick chooses to take you home when he finds you staring blankly at a photo of Tim. You took it a few months ago, at the private birthday party that you’d planned for him, once you’d got him a little tipsy and his hair was sticking up a bit and his cheeks were flushed. You’d snapped a picture of him mid-laugh at one of Dick’s stupid jokes.

“Come on, kid.”, Dick says as he leads you to the car. He’s let you take his arm - ever the gentleman - and you can feel him just barely trembling under your grasp.

“Are you staying tonight?”, you ask him. Dick came over from Blüdhaven first thing on Monday, and although you know he’ll stay at the manor as long as he can, he’s got things on his mind and problems to deal with in his own city. 

You don’t hear his answer. You turn your face up to the overcast sky and search desperately for a ray of sunlight. It’s so freezing and you forgot to bring a shawl and you think it’s going to rain. You don’t find golden sun. You do find a flash of red atop a rooftop.

Red Hood, sitting on the edge of a Gotham high rise, wearing a leather jacket and decked out in guns, is staring down at you and Dick. Or maybe he’s watching the wake. 

There was a similar service after he - Jason - died. You’re not quite sure whether Jason Todd came back from the dead, or if the man under the Red Hood mask is just an empty shell. You’re not quite sure how the fuck it all worked out with him and, to be honest, you won’t care unless the same thing happens with Tim.

Dick doesn’t notice and you say nothing.

He believes that’s still his brother up there and he doesn’t need to see him on the day of his little brother’s funeral.

As you duck into the car under the flash of paparazzi cameras, you wonder if Red Hood is glad that Joker got to Tim. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to stop him. You wonder if little Damian will become another casualty of crime. Your heart is breaking.

///

You stay in Tim’s bedroom that night. No one’s been in since Monday - save for Alfred, to pick out Tim’s favourite suit for the funeral - and it’s still just as haphazard and messy as he left it. You can’t recall a time in all the years of knowing Tim where he’s kept his bedroom even remotely tidy.

It reaches 3:15AM before you admit you’re not going to get any sleep any time soon. You slip out of bed, and pad over to the computer in the corner of the room; Tim’s password has always been an inside joke you’ve had since you were children together and you find it funny that a CEO of a major company wouldn’t have better security.

“Welcome back, Master Drake.”, says a soothing female voice as the computer boots up. It’s linked to the Batcomputer and it’ll give you access to pretty much anything you choose.

 _Jason Peter Todd_ , you type. You’ve never asked before, but you want to know how he died.

Every single file Bruce has compiled since Jason Todd’s death is brought up within seconds. The way the Joker manipulated Shelia Haywood. The autopsy reports showing extensive damage to his bones and internal organs, like he’d been beaten with a pipe or metal rod before his death. The details of his every movement since he resurfaced.

He’s been hunting the Joker. Bruce seems to believe that Red Hood plans to kill him. You wouldn’t be surprised - Red Hood’s notorious for killing everyone who crosses him, or anyone who doesn’t appear to fit his code of morals. It’s a far cry from Bruce and Dick’s ways and you wonder if Jason Todd was like them.

_Joker_

Literally thousands of files spring up on the screen in front of you. Theories on his origins, notes and interview tapes from mental institutions, videos of his fighting style, analysis of his speech patterns, information on the crime scenes he’s left around the city, data and statistics on his murders, research on laughing gas, pictures of all the victims-

It’s 6AM by the time you pass out at the desk. The last thought you have before sleep takes you is that the Joker deserves to die.


	2. Despondent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce seems to be dealing with everyone but the Joker, and you can’t cope alone with the weight of finding him.

Gotham’s streets are quiet for a few weeks, as though the city is holding its breath. Waiting. For what, exactly, you’re not sure, but you don’t really give it much thought since it’s giving you a lot more time to investigate the Joker.

It’s a little difficult with Bruce breathing down your neck - it would be absolutely impossible if Dick hadn’t left for Blüdhaven shortly after the funeral - but you’re nothing if not determined. Batman’s been conducting his own investigations, and he hates when people don’t comply with them; even Tim, with his incessantly curious mind, rarely ever went against Bruce’s orders.

You comfort yourself with the knowledge that you’ve never technically been Batman’s protégée. It’s a total loophole and it doesn’t actually mean anything, and Dick would be horrified to see you putting your training to use like this, but you were actually Nightwing’s student and so it makes it just a little easier to justify going against Bruce. 

It’s his refusal to take decisive action that makes it _really_ easy.

You blow up a week and a half after the funeral.

The Batcave is quiet, save for the gentle hum of the computers. You’ve just returned from a long and pretty much fruitless patrol, and you’re exhausted - you’ve barely slept in weeks - and you should probably go to bed but you don’t. You sit and filter through Gotham security camera footage. There’s only so much ground you can cover in one night, only so much territory you can watch and investigate, and it would be easy to miss something that could lead you to the Joker.

“You’re obsessing.”, Bruce’s voice comes from behind you. He moves silently - all of you do - and you’re used to voices appearing out of nowhere by now. 

You don’t look away from the computer screen. “I don’t want to miss anything.”

There’s a rustle and a thump and a sigh behind you, the sound of Bruce removing his mask. He sounds tired when he speaks. “You need to take a break. You’re going to burn out.”

“Joker doesn’t take breaks either.”, you fire back, pulling up the security footage of a loading dock you’re having suspicions about.

“Starling-“, he says bluntly, coming to stand next to you and watch the screen, “We’ve got other things to worry about too.”

_Is he fucking serious?_ You bite back your shock in favour of speeding up the recording. It’s just a bunch of Penguin’s goons, loading boxes into vans, and as much as you’d like to smash right through his illegal arms dealings, you can’t bring yourself to give up on the Joker. Penguin had nothing to do with Tim. He can do whatever he wants for now.

“Why didn’t you stop that?”, Bruce presses, his voice a little harder now. “You’re entirely capable of shutting that down. Those guns could-“

“It’s not what I’m looking for, Bruce.”

The harshness in your own tone shocks you, but you make no move to apologise or rectify it. You didn’t mean to snap, you really didn’t, but you’re busy and he won’t leave you alone and he doesn’t understand why you’re doing this. Your anger with him has been simmering just beneath the surface for a while, now; he’s been acting like the Joker doesn’t even exist.

Bruce reaches down and turns off the monitor and _now_ you mean it when you snap, “What the fuck are you doing?” He turns to walk away, and you swing around and jump up out of the computer chair and rush in front of him before he can take three steps. Bruce stares down at you, his jaw set in a hard line.

“You’re going to burn out.”, he repeats, like you’re an idiot.

The boiling pot in your chest begins to spit. You exhale shakily, and reply, “I _won’t_. And I’m fine with it if it means we catch the Joker.”

“You just saw how many guns Penguin is moving through this city.”, Bruce says. You notice the dark circles ringing his eyes as he talks. “We need to focus on that right now.”

You have to fight back the urge to roll your eyes. “There are always guns in Gotham, Bruce - always! You accuse me of obsessing over Joker, but you’re fixating on an issue that’s never going to be fixed.”

He moves to walk past you, and you block him. He may be bigger and stronger and he could easily go straight through you if he wanted, but you’re faster and a whole lot more persistent. He rubs his temples with gloved hands like you’re a headache he can’t get rid of. 

“Use your brain, Starling. If we cut the guns off at the source, we can stop them getting into the city at all.” Bruce is talking as though he’s exhausted of an excited toddler’s questions. 

“And if I catch Joker, we can cut crime in the city by - I don’t even know how much - by, fuck, at least half - why won’t you let me?”

Bruce’s jaw tightens even more. “I need you with me to take down Penguin. This is bigger than him, it’s international.”

“Ask Dick.”

“Dick’s busy.”

“So am I!”

“It’s not safe for you to operate alone.”

“You said it yourself, I’m capable!”

“Tim was capable.”

The anger within you bubbles over into full-blown rage. Bruce is treating you like a child and he never lets anyone do anything without his permission and this is the first time he’s said Tim’s name since the funeral and you fucking lose it.

You shove at his hard chest and throw your hands up into the air and spit at him, “Don’t you understand that’s _why_ we have to get the Joker?! He’s going to keep hunting us down until we stop him! You can’t just act like he won’t, Bruce, you can’t! You know he will!”

Your voice rises into a shout as you continue your furious tirade, and it keeps cracking in the middle with rage and something that feels like grief. Bruce just stares at you.

“It doesn’t even matter about guns because Joker - he’ll keep fucking killing people with or without them! You and Dick, you taught me to deal with the biggest problem first! That’s Joker! How don’t you understand this, Bruce?”

You push at his chest again and he actually staggers a little this time. His face is hardening but he’s still in silence and it makes you so angry you just keep screaming.

“What are you gonna do when he gets to the rest of us?! What are you gonna do when you find me or Dick or Damian fucking bleeding out or blown to bits?”

Bruce tried to speak, now, but you realise you don’t actually care what he says and so you just shout over him.

“Or do you just not care?! Because it doesn’t seem like you do, Bruce! He took Tim from us, he - he took Jason Todd - and you’re not doing anything! You’re focusing on fucking guns that are just going to go to Joker anyway! Do you even care that he killed them, did you ever care about-“

“They were my SONS!”, Bruce roars.

You step back from him and shut your mouth. You’ve never seen him like this. Never seen him lose control.

The moment is gone as quickly as it appears. Bruce breathes in, once, twice, three times, and then he fixes his gaze back on you and speaks quietly. “You’ll deal with Joker when I tell you to. Until then, we’re dealing with Penguin.”

He leaves and you’re left standing alone in the Batcave.

///

_“I know,”, Tim laughs. “It’s pretty impressive.”_

_That’s a total understatement. This is the most awe-inspiring house you’ve ever seen and you’re not even inside yet. You take a moment to admire the stunning architecture, the huge windows and the grand double doors, then you turn to Tim with a smile splitting your cheeks._

_“This is fantastic!”, you grin, and you drop your luggage at your feet to give your arms a rest._

_He takes your shoulders, and looks at you for a moment before speaking. His dark circles are a little more pronounced than they used to_ _be - you know his work with Bruce is keeping him busy - and he’s still got that serious look deep in his eyes, he’s had it ever since his mother died all those years ago: but he still looks like your best friend._

_“I’ve missed you a lot.”, Tim says earnestly. “I’m sorry I haven’t seen you for so long, it’s just, I’ve been busy with Bruce and working and-“_

_“It’s okay, Tim!”, you interject. He has a habit of falling out of touch with people without realising, and then beating himself up over it with guilt. You wink, and then giggle, “Besides, you’re gonna have to deal with me all the time now!”_

_It’s only been a few weeks since he invited you to come and live at the Wayne manor. Apparently Bruce had suggested it - perhaps knowing that Tim was getting a little_ _overwhelmed and needed someone who knew him well enough to help - and you would’ve been stupid to turn the offer down. He’s even funding your studies at the top school in the area; you actually did try to turn that incredibly generous offer down but he wouldn’t have it._

_Well, you’re not complaining: you’ll get to spend a lot more time with Tim and it gets you away from your family for a while. Plus, Dick Grayson is **hot**. The only condition Bruce had was that you do some ‘work’ for him, similar to whatever Tim’s been doing. How hard can it be?_

_You’ll have to be careful not to mention Jason Todd, you think, as Tim takes your bags and leads you through the mahogany doors. You’re hoping to settle into the Wayne family as well as Tim has, and everyone seems welcoming and kind from the correspondence you’ve had, but every family has secrets. It’s a shame you never got to meet him. It’s a tragedy that he died._

_You’re jolted out of your thoughts when an elderly, yet robust-looking, man emerges from a side door with a pleasant smile._

“ _It’s a pleasure to meet you, madam.”, he says as he clasps your hand. His voice is soft and kind. “Master Tim has told me plenty about you.”_

_“Oh?”, you laugh, and elbow Tim in the side. He ignores you and rolls his eyes at the old man._

_“Alfred, I’ll be disappointed in you if you both team up on me from now on.”, he says in a warning tone. Alfred meets your gaze with a twinkle in his eye._

_“I wouldn’t dream of it, Master Tim. Now, please, allow me to take the bags upstairs. I’ll leave you to explore the manor.”_

_Tim leads you through the countless rooms_ _and corridors, and the two of you fall into easy banter and chatter. You really have missed him._

_After what must have been at least an hour of laughing together and filling each other in on your lives - and you don’t even finish the tour of the manor - Tim walks you into your bedroom._

_“Oh, shit!”, you exclaim as soon as you step inside._

_This is absolutely perfect. You **must** be dreaming. The room is large, though not big_ _enough that you’d feel uncomfortable, and it’s decorated with some of the most beautiful and tasteful furniture you’ve ever seen. The bed has a gorgeous bedspread and it’s covered in some of the softest-looking pillows, and the view is breathtaking. There’s even an en-suite._

_“Tim,”, you breathe, “I’m never leaving this house.”_

_“Wait until you see this-“, he whispers in an exaggerated mysterious tone, and claps his hands over your eyes. You shriek and try to swat him away but he’s too strong (he’s really filled out, you think) and eventually you’re forced to just let him drag you over to some corner of the room._

_“You can thank me by shutting up about my coffee habits.”, Tim says as he drops his hands from your eyes._

_You’re greeted with a laptop._

_“Fucking ungrateful”, he mumbles when you voice that thought. You can tell he’s joking by the way his lips twitch but you decide to indulge him. God knows how long it’s been since he’s been able to relax and joke around._

_You dramatically throw yourself onto the floor at his feet and wrap your arms around his legs. “I’m so sorry, Master Drake!”, you cry with your cheek pushed against his knee. “Please forgive me! This is the best gift I’ve ever received!”_

_Tim pushes you over with his leg. You land on your rear with an undignified thump and pout up at him as he cackles. “Fucking mean.”, you whine._

_Tim laughs to himself a little longer, and you’re forced to clamber to your feet without his help. You’d be kind of pissed off if it were anyone else, but this is Tim and you’ve never been able to stay angry at each other for long. Anyway, this is shaping up to be one of the best days of your life - moving in with the Waynes and your best friend and starting a new life - and you don’t think anything could ruin it._

_Your best friend pushes his hair back out of his eyes, and smiles at you. “It’s a good laptop. I’ve transferred all of your school files onto it so you can get straight to studying, and there’s a decent webcam on it so we can vide_ o _call if I have to travel.”_

_Your heart swells up a little at his thoughtfulness._

_“Y’know, since I’m such a mean friend.”, he continues teasingly._

_“I take it back-“, you admit as you cross to the bed and throw yourself on it. “You’re the best friend in the whole wide world.” Tim sinks down next to you and you’re struck again wit_ h _how great it’s going to be living in the same house as him._

_“Dick - Dick Grayson - is coming for dinner tonight, by the way.”, he notes after a few more minutes of idle chatter. **Score!** You wonder if he’s as charming as the tabloids say. And apparently he’s twice as handsome in person._

_“What about Bruce? I need to thank him properly for letting me move in here.”_

_“Yeah, he’s just out fi- he’s busy right now.” You don’t miss the way Tim trips over his_ _words in the middle, and you add it to the list of his weird behaviour when it comes to the Waynes. He’s never been able to keep a secret from you, and you’ve suspected something’s up for a while, but you don’t press it. It’s not your place to know yet and he’ll tell you when he’s ready._

_“You gonna explain to me why you’ve put on so much muscle lately?”, you ask as a way to change the subject._

_Instead, Tim looks at you like a deer in headlights. “I, uh - I didn’t notice I had.”_

_You narrow your eyes at him. He sighs, and sits up facing you. “Listen, try not to ask too many questions until dinner tonight. It’ll all make sense then. I told them they can - they_ _know they can trust you.”_

_“What are you talking about, Tim?”, you press, a little concerned but mostly just curious. “Trust me?”_

_“It’s about that work Bruce mentioned.”_

///

You stay in the Batcave for two more hours. Alfred brings you a meal at some point - citing that he worries about your health and you don’t have the heart to turn him down - and you absently pick at it as you flip between Gotham’s security cameras. As much as you just want to get out into the city and do something, there’s no point if you don’t look after your body.

Although you’re still reeling from your argument with Bruce, it’s done nothing if not stoke the flames of anger within you. Tim and Jason Todd were his _sons_ and he’s still doing nothing. He’s not trying to avenge them or prevent it happening to another Robin or even just find their killer. If you died, would he even bat an eye?

The relative inactivity of Gotham’s criminal scene unsettles you. Normally, after the Joker pulled something bold like this, he would keep making noise and trouble until something stopped him, but there’s nothing. Not even a whisper. Aside from Penguin moving arms through the city (and, really, you wouldn’t expect anything to stop that) there’s barely anything resembling organised crime taking place. The most you’ve had to deal with lately has been a few muggings.

It would be reasonable to expect that this lull in activity would allow you to find Joker’s trail fairly easily: nothing to distract you or cover up his tracks.

Nothing about being a vigilante is ever fucking reasonable.

You sigh, and knead the base of your palms into your tired eyes. You’re exhausted. You still can’t stop. 

Who are you meant to go to for help with this? Bruce is obviously off the table. Dick is, too, since he’s too loyal to Bruce to cover for you going against direct orders. Selina Kyle doesn’t care enough about anything to fight it, if it’s not actively trying to kill her. You’re not familiar enough with anyone in the police force to ask them to work with you under the radar. And it’s not like you can go to Tim. In short, you’re alone.

It’s as you come to this conclusion that Red Hood flashes up on the monitor. You immediately recognise his figure as you watch the footage of him. He’s dealing with a man in a large coat - probably a drug dealer, judging by the way he’s cowering instead of fighting back like a thug would - in some back alley not far from where Bruce found Tim. Everything falls into place in your mind at once.

_Jason Todd. Tim Drake. Two Robins._

Jason Todd has more reason than anyone in the world to want the Joker dead.

And, as you watch him shoot the drug dealer in the knee, you know he’ll happily kill. 

He might also kill you. He’s got a fucking vendetta against Batman and you - Starling - are a little too closely associated with him, enough so that people confuse you for Robin sometimes. You’re not entirely sure on Red Hood’s policy on murder but it seems pretty relaxed. He’s shot at Nightwing before for getting too close and they were _brothers_ once.

Are you really willing to take a bullet to the face just on the off chance that Red Hood will work with you?

You think of Tim.

Screw it. It’s worth a try. He never knew you and hopefully that’ll make him a little less likely to kill you. 

You return to your room to continue your research; Bruce will figure out what you’re planning if he sees you looking up Red Hood on the Batcomputer. The laptop Tim gifted you years ago has more than enough VPNs and applications installed for you to find out what you need.

The sun comes up by the time you’ve formulated a plan. Red Hood won’t be difficult to find, he’s hardly subtle and you’re well aware that you’re the best tracker in the family. Dick trained you a little too well. You just hope your powers of persuasion are up to scratch too.

You’ve got plenty of information on Red Hood’s regular spots and movements - you know the streets he haunts and the buildings he normally visits and the people he visits to threaten. It’ll take you maybe three hours to track him down and catch him somewhere quiet. 

For now, you’ll sleep. You’ll need to be well rested for tonight.


	3. Duplicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red Hood seems to enjoy messing with you, but he’s your best chance at finding Joker. You’ll push through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowee red hood is kinda a dick but we love it. also i hc him as having bpd considering he’s had a pretty fucked up life so that’s gonna appear throughout the story (respectfully obviously) i hope that’s ok all

You were right. It was easy to find Red Hood. It is _not_ easy to speak to him. 

It’s not even that he’s busy - he’s sat on a rooftop again when you track him down - or that he wants you dead - he doesn’t start shooting at you - or that he has any apparent reason to be so dismissive. He just seems completely disinterested in you.

You come up behind him slowly, deliberately letting your footsteps be heard so you don’t startle him when you speak. “I hope I’m not bothering you.” It’s a shitty opening line, but what else are you meant to say?

Red Hood doesn’t bother to turn and face you. He doesn’t give any indication whatsoever that he’s even noticed you until he replies after a long pause.

“I want nothing to do with you.”

Fantastic. Well, you’d been expecting this; you’d hoped for him to be a little more cooperative but you’ve heard stories about how difficult he is to work with. The fact that he hasn’t pulled a gun on you yet is, frankly, promising.

So you steady your breathing and continue. “You don’t even know why I’m here.”

“I know who you work for.”, he says instantly.

A hot flash of indignation rushes through you at that. You don’t work for Batman and you never have, and you hate that Gotham seems to think you’re under his instruction. Not that Red Hood cares. _Focus_. 

You’re glad that you’ve psycho-analysed every video of Red Hood you can find. You’ve spent pretty much the entire day scanning for footage of him, and you’re confident that you’ve built a decent idea of his personality considering you’ve never met him before. He’s volatile and unpredictable and violent but there’s one thing you can rely on: his hate.

“I’m here against his will.”, you respond. You hope desperately that it intrigues him enough that he’ll at least hear you out.

Red Hood finally stands up and turns to look at you. He doesn’t step any closer or say anything more, but you can _feel_ his eyes burning into you from under his mask. You’ve never dealt with anyone who has had their face so completely hidden - it’s more unsettling than you anticipated.

You find yourself pulling the mask that covers the lower half of your face up a little higher. “So, can we find somewhere to talk where he isn’t going to see us?”

Red Hood takes one step towards you and you fight the urge to step back.

“You must think I’m stupid if you expect me to go anywhere with you.”, he says bluntly.

“Actually-“, you grit, finding that this guy is already grating on your nerves, “I don’t. I was going to let you choose where we speak.”

The street lamps catch on his mask as he tilts his head a little. “ _You_ must be stupid if you’re going to follow a masked man through the streets of Gotham.”

“Consider it a show of good faith, Red Hood.”

“That means you want something from me, Starling.”

“That’s the way the world works, isn’t it?”

He actually chuckles and the sound of it is distorted and disconcerting through his modulator. As he takes one more step towards you - and he’s so big that one step almost halves the distance between you - your eye catches on the silver glint of the guns strapped to his leg. You’re pretty sure you spot a few knives concealed within his jacket too. Red Hood is armed to the teeth, and you’re glad you’re fast because by the look of him one good punch could knock you out cold.

“You get ten minutes.”, he states, and then he’s turning on his heel and launching himself over the lip of the roof. You can’t quite decide if he has a penchant for dramatic flair or if he just genuinely doesn’t care whether you manage to keep up; either way, you break into a run and follow him.

Running across the rooftops of the city like this reminds you of training with Dick. You remember racing him across entire blocks on quiet nights, or seeing who could leap across the widest gaps. It was always tiring working with Nightwing, mostly because he was such a show-off at times, but your physique and skills have gained a lot from it. It makes it easy enough to keep up with the man currently running in front of you.

Thankfully, Red Hood isn’t nearly as obsessed as Dick with acrobatics. You gladly take the opportunity to study his movements up close: he’s surprisingly fluid for having such a large build, and he pulls himself up onto ledges and jumps between buildings like it’s nothing, but you’re definitely more agile than him. It’s practically instinct by now to size up everyone you meet.

He doesn’t lead you far - maybe a few blocks - before you see him drop down into a narrow alleyway. You’re not particularly familiar with the street, and your location tracker is turned off so there’s no chance Bruce or Barbara would be able to find you if anything went awry, but you’ve already came this far. _May as well go all the way_ , you think as you jam a grappling line into the side of the building and follow Red Hood down.

Your feet touch down against greasy concrete. When you survey the area, you find dumpsters, and rats, and flickering lightbulbs hanging over doors with peeling paint; you assume this is some back alley between seedy clubs. Red Hood’s leaning back against a brick wall, his arms crossed and his visor fixed on you.

Once it becomes clear he’s not going to speak, you begin to talk. “Batman has no idea I’m here. I’m not sure what he’d do if he found out, but - well - I hope I can trust you to keep a secret.”

“You’re not loyal to him, then.”, he replies.

“It’s not like I’m betraying him by speaking to you.”, you say. You’re right. You’re doing nothing wrong yet.

Red Hood huffs out a breath of air, almost like another laugh, and rolls his head back against the wall to look up at the sky. “Don’t worry, little bird.”, he says after a moment. “Your secret is safe with me.”

That’s a weight off your shoulders. You’d hardly expected him to call Bruce and snitch but you know he’s got connections, and connections sometimes talk. Now that’s out of the way, you can focus on why you’re really here.

“Good. Thank you.”, you breathe out, and straighten your posture. “I hear you’re not opposed to working with people. If you share a common goal, that is.”

He looks back down at you. “Is this about that kid who got killed a few weeks ago?”

“...Red Robin. And yes.”

“Why are you coming to me about your dead boyfriend?”

This guy is a fucking piece of work. You don’t let it show on your face but you wonder if he’s trying to piss you off because he’s got an issue with you as well as Bruce, or if it’s just for the pure fun of it. You’re half-tempted to kick him in the head, but it’s not going to get you anywhere. There are plenty of lowlifes in Gotham who you can take your anger out on.

“Do you know how Red Robin died?”, you ask tersely.

“I’ve heard rumours.”

You step a little closer to him, and pull your hood down slightly against the cool night air. “Then you’ll know why I’m here.”

Red Hood pushes off the wall and you’re struck with how he towers over you. You notice his gloved fingers dig into the leather of his jacket when he replies. “I’m not for hire. You want a mercenary, fuck off and find someone else.”

“I- I’m not asking you to work for me.”

“Good-“, he continues as he takes another step. “I don’t take orders. So tell me what you want.”

Now or never.

“I want to work with you.”

Red Hood laughs. He fucking laughs at you. He tips his visor back and laughs and you want to punch him. He laughs for at least half a minute before he finally replies.

“You _are_ stupid, little bird. I don’t work with people who don’t offer me anything in return.”

You clench your fists at your sides, and answer through gritted teeth. “What can I offer you that you would want, Red Hood?”.

You swear you can feel a smug grin begin to crawl up onto his face, even though his mask obscures any trace of his expression. The way his posture shifts tells you that he’s pleased with himself: briefly, you remember Dick talking about how intelligent Jason Todd was and you think you might be playing right into Red Hood’s hands.

“Information.”, he drawls. He takes one more step and you have to crane your neck to look up at the visor now. “I know how involved you are with Batman.”

He’s asking you for information on Bruce. _Fuck_. You’d been fully aware of his vendetta, but you hadn’t anticipated this from him - asking you to actually betray Bruce to someone who wants him dead - considering you’re planning to help him fulfil another agenda. Perhaps his hate isn’t the best thing to rely on; his hatred for the Joker isn’t enough to work with.

What are you meant to do? You may hate Bruce right now, but he’s taught you so much and you owe so much to him and he’s a good person. He’s one of the few good people in Gotham. But that didn’t help Tim. The only thing that can help Tim now is killing the Joker, and you hate that you can’t do it alone but you’re realistic - you don’t stand a chance against him without help. You imagine Red Hood putting a bullet between Bruce’s eyes.

“No.”

Red Hood’s arms tense. “What the fuck do you mean?”.

“I mean, no. I won’t serve him up to you on a silver platter.”, you reply bitterly. You _could_ if you wanted to but you were raised with morals. You’d only turn against Bruce if he betrayed you or anyone else in the family.

You fix your eyes on his visor and stare him down. There’s barely any distance between you, and you can almost feel his chest pressing against you and the way it’s tensed with anger - he’s lowered one hand to rest on the gun strapped to his leg - the crimson of his mask bleeds into your vision until it’s all you can see. You wait.

A long pause. The movement of his hand against the grip of the gun. Your own hand slipping back to grasp an escrima stick. Silence. And then, finally-

“You’re a waste of my fucking time.”, Red Hood growls. His hand slips off the gun and you exhale a little shakily. He steps back and fires a grappling line into the buildings that loom overhead, but he doesn’t take off just yet. 

Instead, he speaks one final time. “Come back to me when you’re ready to actually help this city.”

///

It’s been a week since you spoke to Red Hood when Bruce calls you into the Batcave. Although you’re initially filled with worry that he’s somehow found out about your meeting, you quickly put the stress aside: you’ve hidden your tracks well and he has no reason to doubt you.

As far as Bruce is concerned, you’ve spent all week sniffing around Penguin’s warehouses. The ten minutes you spent talking to the vigilante are inconsequential. You’ll find another way to get to the Joker.

When you enter the Batcave, you find Bruce, still in his patrol gear, stood still and staring at a glass display case. It’s Tim’s Robin uniform. It hasn’t been used in years - not since Damian showed up and Tim became Red Robin - and you seriously doubt Tim would even fit into it anymore. Still, though, Bruce has kept it in pristine condition, right next to Dick and Jason Todd’s gear.

“Bruce?”, you say softly. You’ve barely spoken since the argument last week, but you still live in the same house and work together and the least you can do is treat him with civility. Besides, you feel a little guilty for how you lost it on him.

He turns to face you and you see a bruise blossoming against his jaw. It’s not like him to let himself get hit that hard. “We need to have a serious talk. I’m worried.”

He sounds so _tired_ and you find yourself nodding. The two of you walk over to the small seating area, and he removes his helm with a sigh.

“Where’s Damian?”, you ask, hoping to fill the silence. He and Bruce have been out together this evening, and normally Damian would be down here in the Batcave with his father going over his progress.

“That’s... what I want to speak with you about.”, Bruce says. “I’ve told him to go to his room and rest.”

You chuckle under your breath. “Sometimes I forget he’s still just a kid. I definitely wouldn’t have been able to cope at that age with - you know - everything he does.”

Bruce doesn’t smile or laugh back. You’ve never quite been able to decide how he feels about turning Damian into Robin: you can tell he worries, and you don’t blame him since Damian’s so young. Then again, Damian’s hardly an average kid. Neither of you would be able to stop him from doing this, so at least he’s got guidance.

“...Did something happen tonight?”, you press after a moment.

He runs a hand over his face and up through his hair. “I think Joker’s been sniffing around Damian.”

_Shit_.

Damian may be violent and a little bit crazy but he doesn’t stand a chance against the Joker. He’s still just a _child_ and he’s cocky and barely listens to anyone. He’ll take this as a challenge, and go after the Joker, and then you’ll have to deal with one more dead baby bird.

You swallow thickly. “Why do you think that?”.

“He sent some thugs to get the drop on us. Damian got... overzealous, and we ended up separated. Most of the thugs seemed to be focused on me, but it felt more like it was a distraction than a genuine attack.”

“And Damian?”.

“He dealt with them well enough, but from what I saw, they were fighting like they were testing what he’s capable of.”, Bruce continues quietly. “I found body cameras strapped to them afterwards.”

You feel your chest beginning to tighten. “So... you think Joker’s trying to figure out how Damian fights? And how his brain works?”.

“Yes.”, he confirms. You see grief spark in his eyes. You both know what this means: the Joker is potentially planning to do to Damian what he did to the other Robins. Bruce can’t lose another son, and he’s practically your baby brother. Damian might be fucking annoying and he’s impossible to speak to at times, but he shows he loves you by the way he threatens to kill anyone who comes near you.

“You can’t tell him that Joker’s going after him, Bruce.”, you say, as seriously as you can through the lump in your throat. “You know what he’s like.”

Bruce nods with his mouth set in a tight line. “I won’t. He’s not ready - I can’t risk him striking out alone yet.”

“Does Dick know?”. Dick’s still in Blüdhaven, but he’s also still family and he’s quite possibly the best person to keep an eye on Damian. He’s naturally overbearing and brotherly, meaning Damian’s less likely to figure out what’s going on - God, it’s hard living with a family of detectives.

Bruce seems to follow the same thought process because he replies, “I need you to look out for Damian, not Dick.”.

You feel your brow furrow. “Why? I mean - I’m obviously going to look out for him, but, I’m hardly the best person to watch him, Bruce.”

“We can’t run to Dick every time we need something.”

“But you’re happy to come to me?”, you laugh, only half-joking. “I’m an ally, not a sidekick, you know.”

“He’s got things to deal with in Blüdhaven.”, Bruce insists. He’s impossible to convince when he’s like this, but you try anyway.

“And I’ve got things to deal with in Gotham! You asked me to look around Penguin’s shipping routes - I can hardly take Damian with me on stakeouts. He’s not independent enough yet to investigate warehouses on his own, either - I hate to say it, but he’ll be more of a hindrance than a help.”

You see something change in Bruce’s eyes and suddenly you’re filled with suspicion. “... You’re not trying to keep me busy, are you?”

He sighs. “It’ll be good for you to be with someone while you’re working.”

“Oh- so Damian’s going to be the one babysitting me?”, you blurt out. You really are trying not to let your frustrations with Bruce bubble over again, but this is ridiculous.

“Don’t take it personally. I’m concerned you’ll end up fixating on Joker again.”, he replies in a measured tone. Maybe he’s forgetting you were trained to read people like a book because you’re certain he’s hiding something.

“What do you even mean?”, you shoot back, barely suppressing the challenge in your tone.

“I don’t want you to provoke him into doing anything.”

“Are you fucking serious?”, you spit. Because, honestly, _is he?_

“Yes. I understand this is hard for you, but we need to lay low and figure out why Joker’s doing this before we make a move.”, Bruce responds. He sits up a little straighter in his seat when you fix him with a glare.

You take a deep breath in through your nose, trying to control your anger: shouting didn’t get you anywhere last time, and you want to know what his motives for treating you like a child are.

“Bruce-“, you say, matching his measured and careful tone. “If Joker has his sights set on Damian, laying low won’t do anything to stop him. We need to find him and stop him before he can do anything.”

“He won’t be found until he wants to be found. He’s planning something. The best thing right now is for you and Damian to stay out of harm’s way.”, Bruce affirms. He peels off his gloves and presses his fingers into his temples.

You press on, wanting to know how he’s planning to deal with this. “Are you going to track him down? Or Dick? You can’t expect me and Damian to hide forever.”

“I’ll try, but like I said, the biggest issue in Gotham right now is Penguin and the weapons he’s bringing into the city.”, Bruce says. “Joker only wants to hurt Damian so he can get to me, but he’ll have to show himself in other ways if I keep Damian hidden.”

“So you’re going to risk Joker blowing up downtown Gotham just to get your attention?”. You can’t believe this - he _knows_ how crazy the Joker is and blowing something up would be tame for him.

“I won’t let him. But I also won’t risk you or Damian getting hurt while you’re out on patrol.”, Bruce instantly answers, like it’s obvious.

“If he wants us, he’ll find us no matter what we’re doing. Tim - he - it happened while he was walking to his car, Bruce. And Jason Todd was visiting his mother. It doesn’t _matter_ to him if we provoke him or not.”

Although you keep your tone as cool as you can, your chest is tight and the lump in your throat is growing and your hands are shaking in your lap. You dig your fingers into your thighs and breathe through the anger. There’s a chance you can convince Bruce if you’re calm.

“He’s almost impossible to catch, especially when he’s not ready to be found.”, Bruce says. You look him straight in the eye.

“... Maybe it’s time to move past catching him.”

“No.”, he says within a split second. His voice has changed into something deeper and more commanding, but you don’t give up.

“It’s the only way to guarantee he doesn’t hurt Damian.”, you reason. “I don’t like it either but-“

“-I said no.”

You don’t like this part of yourself, but you know you’re right. If the Joker dies, Gotham will undoubtably be safer. “Would you seriously risk Damian’s life over killing someone who - arguably - deserves it?”

“Yes. There’s always another way.”. He says it with such conviction. Like it’s easy to justify letting his son die, as long as it means he doesn’t have to kill anyone himself. Like it’s the right thing to do. 

You want to scream at him. You want to ask him why it’s okay to permanently paralyse a man from the waist down because he got caught loading boxes onto a Penguin truck so he could feed his family, or why it’s okay to lock a mentally ill man up for life instead of funding psychiatric treatment - you want to ask why it’s not okay to kill someone who deserves it. You want to punch him and shout at him and ask why he gets to decide what justice is.

You don’t. You stand up and calmly say, “...Okay, Bruce. I’m going to go to bed, if there’s nothing else you want from me?”

You don’t wait for an answer. You leave, and walk up to your room, and tears begin to prick at yours eyes when you walk past Damian’s door.

Once you reach your room, you shove the door shut and collapse back against it. You can feel waves of guilt and rage and grief swelling up in your chest, roaring and crashing against your lungs, and it’s making it hard to breathe; you draw your knees up to your chest and bury your face in your arms.

It’s been years since you’ve felt this. The last time was after your first close-miss with death, when a bullet grazed your temple and you didn’t even realise until you felt the blood on your cheek minutes later. Dick had lead you into a quiet alley and steadied you and talked you through it. He’s always made sure to keep his comm line open to you on busy nights since then.

The time before that, it was your exams. You were so overwhelmed with studying enough to stay at the top of your class, and dealing with the newfound attention of the media now that you lived with the Waynes, and training to become a fucking vigilante - where had that come from? - and it was all too much. Tim had heard you crying and he’d rushed in and hugged you. He slept in your room that night, and he watched trashy movies with you and even ate chocolate.

This time, you don’t cry. You don’t pull at your hair. You just stare at your feet and struggle alone against the waves of panic crashing over you.

You said you wouldn’t turn against Bruce unless he betrayed someone in the family. Is this betrayal? To refuse to visit Jason Todd’s grave anymore - to avoid saying Tim’s name - to refuse to avenge the death of two sons - to allow another son to die?

He’s denying you closure. He’s denying Damian safety. He’s putting Gotham at risk, again and again, so he can remember that he’s a good man. So he can justify everything he does, because _at least Batman doesn’t kill._

///

The next night, Red Hood finds you before you find him: you’re in a side alley, catching your breath after some gang thugs tried to jump you. That’s what you get for clearing out one of their gun caches, you think, as you turn your head up to the sky and breathe.

Red Hood’s lounging against a fire escape a few stories above, watching you. You wonder how long he’s been there - did he watch the whole fight? Maybe he’s been watching you all night. Whatever it is, you _really_ aren’t in the mood for his shit, considering how he brushed you off last time. You lift an arm and flip him off.

He suddenly swings over the fire escape railing and lets himself drop, turning the impact on the concrete into a roll: he’s obviously skilled, but that suit must have shock absorbers if he’s willing to take that kind of impact just to show off. You glare at him, unimpressed, as he cracks his knuckles.

“Thought I was gonna have to jump in and save you, there.”, he says. You can hear the smugness in his tone.

Trying not to indulge him too much - although there’s a little bubble of pride in your chest, because he’s actually sought you out and spoke to you - you reply. “I doubt you would’ve been much help. Not with the way you just threw out your back jumping down here.”

Red Hood pauses mid-stretch and tilts his helmet to look you up and down. “Next time, I’ll let them kill you.”

Despite his threat, he definitely seems cheerier than during your last encounter; you don’t really want to think about _why_ , but at least he might be more agreeable this time. He seems less tense, his movements a little freer, and his hands aren’t lingering anywhere near his guns.

“You’re in a good mood.”, you state, crossing your arms over your chest.

“And you’re in a bad one, little bird.”, Red Hood says. “Did you fall out with daddy?”.

It strikes you out of nowhere that Red Hood knows your identity, _of course_ he does. You’d known it on a superficial level - Dick had briefed you on it, years ago, when Red Hood had first surfaced - but it’s different when he throws it out at you like this. It’s more than a little unsettling to realise that he could know everything about you: your name, your face, where you go to shop or study or work. Anything that’s published in the tabloids or your social media, he could know.

“Something like that.”, you mutter. You comfort yourself with the knowledge that, if he wanted to use your identity against you, he already would have.

His chuckle rings harshly through the voice modulator. “Thought about my proposal any more?”

Bruce, he means. You nod.

“So, how much you gonna tell me?”, he continues. 

As much as you feel justified in leaving Batman, and the fact that you know doing this might save Damian’s life, you can’t ignore the guilt in your stomach. Bruce loves you, like a daughter, and selling him out is one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do. You won’t say any more than you have to.

“That depends on how much it takes for you to agree to work with me.”, you reply.

“Explain something to me.”, he says, almost like an afterthought. “What are you expecting to happen if we do... team up?”

Red Hood is speaking to you tonight with a teasing lilt in his tone, as though he’s trying to get under your skin because he enjoys it rather than being in a bad mood. 

You huff against your mask. “I want Joker dead.”, you say, simple and plain. There’s no point beating around the bush.

Red Hood chuckles again, colder and crueller this time. “You don’t kill. You expecting me to do your dirty work?”

Fixing your eyes on the white visors covering his own, you reply as steadily as you can. “I can do what needs to be done.”

“And you think that’s what needs to be done? To kill him?”, Red Hood challenges you, inching closer. When you nod, he continues. “You think you’re capable of it?”.

“I am - I know I am.”, you say, trying desperately to hold your own. He’s suddenly switched to a much more serious demeanour and it’s throwing you for a loop - you don’t let it show.

You notice his hand dip into his jacket, and then he’s pulling out a knife that glints in the city lights. He doesn’t move it any closer to you, he just twirls it between his gloved fingers and watches your face: you won’t give him the satisfaction of pulling your own weapon.

“I’m not so sure, kid.”, he says lowly, advancing on you again. “You’re tiny. Not much of a threat.”

“I don’t have to be big to kill someone.”, you quietly reason.

He spins the knife and holds his hand up to drift it across your collarbones, a feather-light touch that you can’t feel through the material but you do feel in the pit of your stomach. He’s kept enough distance between you that you wouldn’t be able to duck inside his guard and get the knife away from him.

“I could kill you right now.”, he murmurs.

You’re quickly realising that the best way to deal with Red Hood is to avoid pissing him off without rolling over and showing your stomach: to stand up to him without making him angry. So, you could challenge him and say _I’d like to see you try_ , or surrender and say _please don’t_ , but instead you say-

“I’ve done nothing to justify that.”

There’s a quiet moment. He presses the knife in slightly at the base of your throat, and you hold your breath.

Then Red Hood’s laughing and the knife is back inside his jacket. He’s laughing loud enough that it echoes off the walls of the apartment buildings on either side of you even through the voice modulator, tipping his head back, and you just know there would be a cocky grin on his face if you could see it.

“So serious, little bird.”, he finally says. “You’ll grow out of that.”

You swear Jason Todd was only two years older than you.

“Don’t pull a knife on me if you want me to be serious.”, you grit, because to be honest, he’s getting on your nerves more than you’d like to admit.

Red Hood snorts. He turns and makes his way over to the fire escape, jumping and pulling himself up onto it, and then he leans down towards you.

“Luckily for you, you picked a spot to get in trouble that’s right outside one of my apartments. Let’s talk business.”

Something inside of you practically screams for you to stop, that this is a trap, that you’re playing right into his hands. You push it down and follow him, swinging yourself up onto the freezing metal and making your way up the ladder behind him. He slips into an open window, right next to where he was stood watching you earlier - fuck it. You follow him inside.

The apartment is small, and drab, but surprisingly tidy. Everything seems to have a place: the numerous guns hung on the walls are clean, the blanket on the coach is folded, and there’s even a shelf stocked with books in the corner.

Red Hood sinks down into an armchair that’s too small for his frame, his forearms resting on each arm, and gestures for you to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the small coffee table. You’re not sure what you expected Red Hood’s safe houses to look like, but this isn’t it. You sit.

He pulls the guns from their holsters on his legs and places them on the table before speaking. “I want information on Batman before I even consider hearing anything else from you.”

Well, you’d expected that much. “That’s fair. What do you want to know?”. You could probably negotiate a little better, but you’re exhausted and in a shitty mood and it’s not like he’ll listen.

“Safe houses.”, Red Hood says. “The location and contents of all his safe houses.”

Your chest twinges and you fight back the urge to wince. You have to do this. “Fine.”

“Ah-ah, I’m not finished yet.”, he chides. Seriously? Bruce has at least ten safe houses within central Gotham alone, and you’ll be handing over a lot of information; it hardly seems fair, but then again, you are asking Red Hood to help you kill the clown prince of crime.

“I also want his master access code.”, he continues. 

He says it simply, like it’s not a huge ask. That code will give him access to _everything_ Bruce owns. Remote overrides for all of his gadgets - even the Batmobile - and a line into his comms links. Access to every file on the Batcomputer, and a key for all of his safe houses. Red Hood could absolutely destroy Batman with that code. He could literally kill him in seconds.

And you know what he’ll do with that power. His plans for Bruce are similar to the ones you know he has for Joker.

“I don’t have it.”

It’s the truth. Even Dick doesn’t know the master access code. Barely anyone even knows it exists, and for good reason. Bruce himself only has one for emergencies.

Red Hood swings his legs up to rest on the coffee table. You can feel the brilliant white eyes of his mask burning into you. “Then _get_ it, little bird. Those are my terms.”

You drop your eyes to your lap for a moment. He’s too intense for your liking right now, and he’s asking something huge of you. The light catches on the rings that decorate your knuckles. They’re flat, cold metal, perfect for swinging into the side of someone’s head to put them down instantly. Tim added them to your gear two years ago, when he’d heard you complaining about how hard you had to hit to knock people out. In fact, half of your gear was made by Tim.

“Fine.”, you hear yourself say out of nowhere. “But only after Joker is dead. Those are my terms.”

Red Hood cocks his head at you. “What guarantee do I have that you’ll stay true to your word?”

“You could sell me out to anyone in this city at any point. If I don’t keep up my end of the bargain, I’m sure plenty of people would be very pleased to find out my identity.”. You’re gambling your life here. It better pay off.

He leans forward, and sticks a gloved hand out across the coffee table. If you take it, if you do this, there’s no going back: you’re agreeing to betray Bruce, and committing to killing the Joker.

“We’ve got a deal.”, Red Hood says as you shake his hand. “I’m assuming you have a plan for this.”

Of course you do - there have been far too many sleepless nights since the funeral, and plenty of time in which to think. Still, though, it’s strange speaking your thoughts aloud. You’ve never planned something so large-scale and secretive.

You settle back into the chair and cross your arms. “In a week or so - it depends on how long you need to prepare, I guess - I’ll have a massive, very _public_ breakdown. The media’s been all over me for weeks. They - they’ve always assumed that Tim and I were together.”

Red Hood makes no move to speak, instead acknowledging you with a nod, and you take it as a cue to continue. “The Waynes keep telling me how worried they are about me. They’ll believe it if I stage a meltdown. I’ll make sure the media gets it, so no one suspects anything. That way, no one will be able to shut this down before it even begins.”

You sigh inwardly at how easily this plan has came to you. “I’ll tell them I’m going to private rehab - I’ll say I’ve been using drugs since the funeral - that I need time away from everything. I’ll tell the Waynes I can’t cope with seeing them and that I need a few months alone... I’ve got a friend on the other side of the country who can fake pictures of me at a rehab centre over there.”

He hums in what you assume is approval. “You’re smarter than I thought, kid.”

You force a smile, even though he can’t see it under your mask. You’re already talking now and it’s hard to stop given how much time you’ve spent perfecting this plan. “Tim - Red Robin - he, uh, there are a few duplicates of his suit in his room at the manor. He fiddled with them a lot, just playing around with the tech and stuff, and Batman won’t miss them until it’s too late. I’ll be able to modify one of them so it’s my size-”

“Woah, woah - you’re planning to become Red Robin?”, Red Hood interjects. He sounds genuinely shocked.

Maybe you are being a little dramatic here, but who is Red Hood to judge?

“The last thing Joker sees should be the two Robins that he killed.”

For a moment, you think you’ve overstepped the mark - Red Hood stiffens in his seat and you think his mask drops just enough to glance at his guns. He’s silent for a long moment, and you wonder if you’ve triggered something in him that’s going to make him lose it. You prepare to make a dash for the window.

Then he chuckles darkly. “You’re a twisted little bird. I’m going to have fun with you.”

“And I hear you’re a twisted man.”, you reply, resting your head on one hand. Red Hood seems to have a way of varying his intensity that you’ve never experienced before. He’s got you totally on edge one second, ready to literally run for your life, and the next moment you’re relaxed enough to make jabs at him like you would with anyone else.

’Fun’ isn’t what you’d call it, but this is certainly going to be interesting.

“I have loose ends to tie up here. Give me... ten days, and I’ll meet you in Blüdhaven. You’ll find me easily enough, I suppose.”

“Blüdhaven?”, you blurt out. “You do realise-“

“That’s where Nightwing operates, yeah. You said you could handle this. Don’t go getting cold feet on me now.”, he says. There’s more than a hint of annoyance in his tone.

Operating right under Dick’s nose - especially when he’s the man who taught you almost everything you know - feels almost as wrong as selling Bruce out to a man who wants him dead. But Red Hood’s right: you’ve come too far to back out of this.

“I’ll find you in Blüdhaven, then.”, you say quietly. “Don’t be late. The longer we wait, the more likely Joker is to kill someone else.”

_Damian_. Red Hood doesn’t need to know that yet.

He rises to his feet, leaving the guns on the table, and walks around it to stand in front of you. He’s fucking huge, you think, as he clasps one large hand onto your shoulder. 

“I don’t disappoint, little bird.”

Then he’s pulling you up to your feet with a tight grip, and pushing you over to the window. The cold winter air of Gotham nips at the exposed skin around your eyes, and you shiver at the sensation combined with the gloved hand on your shoulder.

“Now leave.”, he says, right in your ear. It’s close enough that you can just barely hear his smooth, deep voice under the rasp of the voice modulator. “Go play and let me deal with my business.”

You slip out the window without looking back.


	4. Storge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if your last days in Gotham are spent lying to your family about why you’re leaving, it’s still hard to say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen up bruce wayne is problematic as fuck like i love him but i will die on this hill

Dick should never have taught you how to lie. ‘If you can convince me’, he’d said, ‘you can convince anyone’. It had took you almost a year to be able to make him believe even a little white lie - you never imagined you’d have to make him believe something like this. 

The worst thing is, it’s not even difficult. You know him so well, and he was such a good teacher, that it’s almost easy to convince him that this is real. You’re not faking the pain: of course you’re not, there’s been a dull ache in your chest ever since 3:21AM on that Monday all those weeks ago, but you’re hardly stupid enough to deal with it through drugs and drinking when you’re in the public eye of Gotham.

He and Bruce don’t need to know how you’re actually planning to deal with this, though.

Dick called you seven minutes after the first photo went up on Twitter of you crying in public. He’d rushed back to the manor two days later, when you’d been spotted high in a Gotham club. He’s sat with you now, at the kitchen island in the manor, as you come down from the pills you tipped back at the club.

You feel like shit. You really, really do feel awful - you’re hot and sweaty and your mouth is dry, and it’s 5AM and you can’t sleep. This would be _so_ much easier if you were drunk.

“You should’ve called me.”, Dick scolds you as he hands you a fresh ice pack. “I understand not talking to Bruce, but you know you can come to me about anything.”

You groan as you press the ice pack to the back of your neck. “I didn’t want to worry you. It’s not like I’m shooting myself up-“

“You’re family.”, he interjects, and you can see the hint of disappointment in his eyes when you glance up to meet them. It’s hidden beneath concern, but it hurts all the same.

There’s a double meaning to his words. First, and foremost, you know he means that he’s practically your older brother, and it’s natural for him to worry and want to help you. Still, there’s also the implication that you’re a Wayne in all but name. Your actions reflect on the rest of the family, too.

“I’m sorry, Dick.”, you sigh. He’s leaning back against the island with his arms crossed. You know he doesn’t sleep much, between work and Nightwing duties, but he looks exhausted. It wouldn’t surprise you to find out he’s been throwing himself at his job since the funeral.

Dick studies you for a moment. You don’t meet his gaze, instead dropping your head to rest in the crook of your elbow, but you can feel it piercing you. He’s always had a way of making you feel as though he’s looking right through you.

“You should’ve called.”, he repeats.

“I know-“, you mumble against the hot skin of your arm. “I’m sorry.” You’re sorry for a lot of things.

“I don’t like lecturing you. It makes me feel like I’m an annoying older brother, instead of a _cool_ one.”, Dick says, and you hear him move to sit on the stool next to you. He’s never been as serious as Bruce anyway.

You manage a weak laugh. “You’re nearly thirty, Dick. The tabloids will be calling you a silver fox soon. You’re not cool.”

“Don’t remind me.”, he grumbles beside you.

There’s a few minutes of silence, in which you readjust the ice pack on your neck several times. You can feel beads of sweat forming on your temples and this is hell but you couldn’t exactly fake a high. Your mind wanders to the drug ring you busted a few months ago: the things they were cutting their drugs with horrified you. And you can hardly guarantee your pills this evening were any safer.

“Dick?”, you say quietly, trying to distract yourself. “Do you think Bruce knows?”.

You sense him tense a little beside you. “You’re all over Twitter - I mean, you were in the busiest club in the city on a Friday night. I don’t know what you expected.”

Of course Bruce knows. You can practically see the headlines of tomorrow’s papers. It hurts to think of the impact this is going to have on the family; it’ll be a PR nightmare for Wayne Enterprises, especially considering the increasing role you’ve taken in the business in the past year, and your little scandal will be the talk of high-society parties for weeks. _At least the socialites have the decency to get high in secret._

And that’s without even thinking about the toll your next move will take on the Waynes. This mental breakdown stunt you’re pulling is purely for the benefit of the public - just to provide an explanation so you can disappear from the public eye for a few months. The family will figure out what you’re doing as soon as Red Robin is spotted in Blüdhaven next week.

“I guess I’ll have to issue a public apology.”, you say. This might be necessary, but the least you can do is minimise the damage it does to the family.

“I think you should leave that up to Bruce.”, Dick replies. His tone has become more serious again, and that brotherly disappointment is creeping back up into it. “You’re not in the best state of mind right now.”

You lift your head from the counter and take a sip of the water he’s placed in front of you. “I’m not a junkie, Dick.”

“But you do have a problem.”, he instantly responds, a little tersely. 

It’s hard to meet his eyes, but you do. “It’s just... this is hard - it’s really hard, I guess. Punching bad guys doesn’t really do anything anymore, you know?”

Dick’s brilliant blue eyes soften just a touch. He told you, once, about how he nearly went off the rails. It was just after Jason Todd died, and Dick said he was tired of losing people. He nearly killed someone. But he brought himself back from the edge, because he’s Dick Grayson, the golden boy, the boy wonder, and he’s better than that.

You’re none of those things. You think you might be more like Jason Todd than you are like Dick Grayson.

He gestures for you to keep going, and it’s hard not to open up to him. 

“I... I just don’t know how to deal with... this. I’ve tried so hard to work through it, you know - fighting crime and stuff, it’s what you and Bruce taught me to do. But it just doesn’t _help_ , Dick, it doesn’t even distract me - I don’t know what to do, I just can’t stop thinking about what happened. And... I guess, if I’m high, it just... it goes away for a few hours.”

You swallow thickly and take another sip of your water. Dick runs a hand over his face, and his voice is softer than before when he speaks. “I know it’s hard. I know. But you can’t lose yourself in this.”

There’s a silent plea in there: _don’t put me through losing another sibling._ Lying to him might be easy to do in practice, but god is it fucking hard. Something in your chest tightens.

He stands, and wraps one arm around you. The other hand comes up to push the damp strands of hair away from your forehead. You’re briefly reminded of the first time he got you drunk at a Wayne gala, and it ended with him holding your hair back in the pristine marble bathroom. Dick’s a good brother. He doesn’t deserve any more pain in his life.

“I’ll look into rehab and therapy centres.”, you say, leaning your head into his shoulder. “Maybe I need some time away from everything.”

Dick’s hand tightens affectionately around your shoulder, and the vice grip on your chest tightens hard. The after-effects of your high are still strong and they’re making it more than a little difficult to regulate your emotions, so you don’t blame yourself when burning tears spring up in your eyes. You don’t try to blink them away or hide them.

You’re crying for a lot of things. Tim, and the hole he’s left in your chest. Damian, and the pressure you feel to protect him. Dick, and the guilt tearing through you over lying to him. Bruce, and the fact that you’ll have to betray him one day soon. 

Dick wraps you up into his arms - you meet him halfway, folding yourself into him and burying your head into his chest. It’s too warm and an uncomfortable angle but you don’t care in the slightest. You feel safe like this. He rubs one hand between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion, and his head drops down so his cheek is resting against your hair; you can feel the tightness of his jaw, like he’s hurting.

You cry until your tears have soaked through his button-up. He must have came here straight from the office. He holds you through it all, not complaining or moving away, just being there for you. There’s a million other things each of you could be doing, but you stay there in the kitchen as the night bleeds into day.

“I’m sorry for letting you down.”, you whisper against his chest, and you mean it. He doesn’t know the extent of what you mean yet, but you mean it all the same. Disappointing Dick is one of the worst feelings you know. Doing it deliberately is killing you.

Dick pulls you back and grabs your shoulders tightly, leaning down so his face is level with your own. His own eyes are a little watery when he says, earnestly, “I’ve never been as proud of anything as I am of you.”

///

Bruce pays for you to stay at one of the best private rehabilitation centres on the west coast - you imagine Dick must have spoken to him, because he does it quietly and picks a centre known for its seclusion. The media lap up the announcement that you’ll be leaving Gotham for a few months to recover, but they won’t be able to get into the rehab centre.

Honestly, you’re half-tempted just to take the chance to leave. It wouldn’t be so bad to disappear for a while, to get away from the paparazzi and your job and the grief weighing heavy on your chest. You’ve made an agreement with Red Hood, though, and you wouldn’t put it past him to track you down and shoot you if you broke a promise.

Your last day in Gotham is spent at the manor. You greedily drink up every last second with the Waynes, every moment spent with your family. The fear that they might not take you back after you’re done with Joker is ever present in the back of your mind.

It’s as you’re walking through the gardens with Damian that your phone pings. At first, you don’t take notice of it - many of your friends and acquaintances have been messaging you over the past few days, offering comfort and support. You haven’t answered half of them. But, when the phone buzzes again, you reach into your pocket, meaning to switch it to silent so you can enjoy your time with Damian.

Two texts from an unknown number are plastered across the screen: _You’ve done a good job of tricking everyone. Ever consider a career in acting, little bird? (2min ago)_

_I’ve dealt with everything I need to for now. I wonder who’ll find who first in Blüdhaven. We could make a game of it. (Just now)_

Red Hood. He must have found your number somehow - it’s not difficult to get someone’s details if you know what you’re doing. You feel your face drop; you really don’t want to have to think about him, at least not for a few more hours. You don’t imagine he’ll react well to being ignored, though, so for now it’s easier to humour him and reply.

**You** : _I’ll pass. We’re too old for games, and I’d rather get straight to business (11:14)_

Then, you switch your phone to silent and slip it back into your pocket. Red Hood can wait until you’ve finished walking with Damian.

The boy in question narrows his eyes at you. “Who was that?”.

He may be a natural detective - he’s certainly taken after Bruce in that respect - but he’s not trained for nearly as long as you have, and the lie rolls off your tongue easily. “An old schoolfriend. He was just reaching out to say he’s sorry for everything that’s happening.”

Damian scoffs, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s stupid when people apologise for things they had nothing to do with. It changes nothing.”

You’re acutely aware that you sound like Dick when you speak, but God knows Damian needs to learn some semblance of emotional intelligence. “I know, Dame, but it’s just people trying to be nice.”

He scoffs, although he doesn’t argue. You notice him bury his face further into the scarf wrapped around the lower half of it: it’s a red woollen one, that Tim bought him last Christmas. Novembers in Gotham are freezing, often sub-zero, and it’s a far cry from the hot climate Damian was brought up in. 

“Do you want to head back inside? It is a bit cold.”, you offer. Damian just tuts and shakes his head, and you’re happy to spend the extra time with him even if he is kind of intense, because he’s worked his way into your heart since he came to the manor and he’s basically your baby brother now. The two of you keep walking through the gardens, frost crunching underfoot.

Damian isn’t as talkative as Dick, but it doesn’t feel awkward to walk in silence. It’s a nice opportunity to breathe and relax. The air is cold and fresh, biting at your face a little, and you inhale deeply and allow it to fill your lungs. You’ll never get tired of this; you remember the first time Bruce took you out on the rooftops at night, and the way you swung between buildings savouring the night air. It all feels so long ago now, and so much has changed, but so much is the same too.

After a few minutes, you’re jolted from your thoughts when a small bird flutters out from the bushes in front of you. It’s just a flash of brown and red before it spirals up into the sky. A robin. You can appreciate the irony.

“How’s everything as Robin?”, you ask, carefully, trying not to let concern creep into your tone too much.

“It’s enjoyable.”, Damian says. “Father’s too easy on some of the people we fight sometimes, I think... but I like doing something important.”

You smile at him - it’s nice to know that he wants this, that he doesn’t feel pressured into living this kind of life. “You’re improving a lot. You’ve still got a lot to learn, but you’re doing really well. I’m proud of you, Dame.”

He preens just a little under your praise - working under Batman does that to a person - although he tries to hide it, and you pretend not to notice. “I want you to teach me some things when you come back. It’s good to learn a variety of styles.”

When you come back, or if? Will Bruce and Dick even let you near Damian, once you’re a murderer?

You don’t let your smile fall. “What kind of stuff do you wanna learn?”.

“Firing guns, for a start.”, Damian says, instantly, like he’s not a child.

It’s not like you’ve ever fired a proper bullet. Last year, after you tore the ligament in your knee straight through, Dick told you to adjust your fighting style so you had time to recover. You ended up spending the better part of three months (thank god for Lucius Fox’s medical technology, or it would’ve been much longer) perched on top of buildings with a modified sniper rifle. Nightwing’s always had a habit of talking villains’ ears off, and it made it easy for you to hit them with tranquilliser darts and rubber bullets.

You wonder if Red Hood knows about that. It might make him a little less cocky about his own guns. Those three months were fucking boring and you wouldn’t want to go back to them, but at least you’ve got some experience.

“I wouldn’t trust you with a gun, I’m not going to lie.”, you reply, split between amusement and seriousness. You doubt Damian would be using non-lethal bullets. “Maybe when you’re older.”

Damian huffs, and his thick eyebrows draw together into a frown. “I could gut a man with a sword, but you won’t let me near a gun. You Westerners are so pedantic.”

You laugh, and nudge him gently with your elbow. “You’re a Robin, which means you’ve got to follow your dad’s rules.”.

“I doubt you followed all of Dick’s rules.”, Damian scowls.

“That’s neither here nor there-“, you say. You always did try not to make things too difficult for your mentor, but you might have bent the rules a few times. “Since your dad would have my head if I put a rifle in your hands.”

“Father would never do that to you. He cares too much.”. He says it simply, even a little disdainfully, but for a second his words make you feel like you’re going to throw up.

Your phone suddenly feels heavier in your pocket. You need to change the subject before he notices your discomfort.

“I’m going to miss you, you know.”, you say, and the words spill out softly into the cool air. “While I’m gone - I mean. It’ll be hard being away from you.”

Damian tuts, but you see the way his eyes crease at the corners. You’ve learned to read between the lines with him: he’s going to miss you too.

“We should go back inside.”, he mumbles into the wool of his scarf after a moment. “Alfred‘s preparing your favourite meal.”

The walk back to the manor is quiet, save for the whistles of birds and the rustling leaves in the breeze. You wrap yourself up in your coat a little tighter and ignore the weight of your phone. This might be the last chance you get to walk with your little brother.

Alfred meets the both of you at the door with two mugs of hot chocolate ready. You accept it thankfully, wrapping your palms around it to fight off the chill, and you savour the taste of your first sip - Alfred really does spare no expense when it comes to even the smallest of things, and you’re going to miss this. Red Hood won’t be making you hot drinks and scones, that much you’re sure of.

“The meal will be ready in around twenty minutes, miss.”, Alfred addresses you once Damian’s vanished into the pantry to look for snacks.

You smile warmly at him and sip at your drink. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll be up in my room until then. I should make sure I’ve packed everything I’ll need.”

“Of course, miss.”, he says, and he heads back into the kitchen with a respectful nod of his head. Alfred’s kept his stiff upper lip throughout everything that’s happened over the past few weeks - he’s been a steady rock for the whole family, somehow managing not to crack under the pressure, and he’s treat you the same way he always has even as the media calls you a crack whore.

_That’s uncalled for_ , you think as you head to your bedroom. You suppose you should be grateful that your stunt has paid off, but it’s still hard to see your name slandered.

As soon as the door to your room is shut and locked, you pull your phone out from your pocket.

**Unknown** : _All of you are so serious. It’s fucking boring. You better cheer up before you get to the city. (11:19)_

**You** : _You sound like a creepy guy on the street telling me to smile (11:43)_

Then you toss your phone onto the bed and cross to the wardrobe. At the back, hidden behind the rest of your clothes and gear, is the Red Robin uniform you’ve altered to fit you. Giving it a quick once-over seems sensible.

It’s one of Tim’s less used suits - it was essentially his toy, an experimental version of the suit he wore out on patrol. He often played around with it on the nights where he was too jacked up on coffee to sleep. The built-in tech was easy enough to figure out and adapt, using a few simple coding apps you’ve got on your laptop, and you’re confident that you’ve managed to suit it to your own fighting style.

Altering the suit itself wasn’t quite as easy. It was clearly designed for a man, one with a lot more muscle mass than you, and the armoured plates sewn into the material made it difficult to alter the size. You’ve had to combine some of it with your own outfit, creating a midway hybrid between Starling and Red Robin, to guarantee a good fit. It’s going to be strange wearing such a bright colour instead of your signature black.

You’ve even electrified the ends of the bo staff. You’re used to escrima sticks, and although the bo staff is much larger and heavier, the familiar hum of electricity in its ends makes it feel more natural in your hands.

All of this is pretty good for a week’s work. It’s all been in secret too, of course, the adaptations to Tim’s gear made in snatches between dealing with the family and the media. You can imagine what Tim would say to it all: he’d demand to know every little change you made, and the process behind it all, and he’d congratulate you on one thing but then question another. He had a curious, non-stop mind ever since you were young.

For a moment, you toy with the idea of trying on the outfit. You’ve not seen yourself as Red Robin yet; the changes you’ve made to the suit have been purely calculated using your measurements. The thought of seeing yourself in the mirror, with the Red Robin symbol emblazoned across your chest, Tim’s bo staff clutched in your hand, his mask on your face, his colour-

You bundle everything up and shove it into the bag of clothes you’ve already packed. Although you’ve packed plenty, knowing you’ll not have a chance to come back to the manor to get more, you take care to bury the suit and staff right at the bottom. Bruce won’t question the spare gear visible in the bag; he’s always taught you to keep something on you at all times.

Everything else you’ll need, you’ve already stashed in drop spots around the city. Extra weapons, a spare version of the suit in case your primary one gets damaged, medical supplies, all of your gadgets - it’s not been difficult to sneak out and hide them. You’ll pick them up before you head to Blüdhaven.

Thankfully, money won’t be an issue. You’ve been moving money into a bank account under another name for years. It’s always been a safety net, in case you ever needed to disappear, although you assumed it would only ever be used if your identity was revealed. There’s a decent sum saved up in it, and you’re almost 90% sure that Red Hood is rich considering the amount of drug rings he’s involved in.

Technically, leaving will be easy. You’re well-prepared and you’ve planned as much as you can. Flying the nest, so to speak.

The flash of your phone screen lighting up on the bed draws your attention: Red Hood must be in a good mood again, if he’s actually responding to your jab.

**Unknown** : _I’m just the creepy guy you’re going on a killing spree with. You sure you’re not gonna chicken out? (11:52)_

He seems convinced you’re some fickle, childish idiot - that you can’t be trusted to know what you’re doing. Or, he’s just toying with you.

**You** : _Yeah. I’ll get to Blüdhaven early tomorrow morning (11:53)_

The message instantly flashes up as read, but Red Hood doesn’t reply. It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. You’re soon distracted, though, by two notifications that pop up at the top of your screen.

**Damian** : _Come down to the kitchen before I eat your food. (Just now)_

**Dick** : _wow that meal looks delicious...... it sure would be a shame if someone... ate it (Just now)_

A small laugh escapes you, despite everything, and you make sure to lock the door of your bedroom behind you when you leave. Alfred’s started a fire in the hearth in the kitchen, and the warmth of it washes over you like a wave as you enter the room. Dick and Damian are seated next to each other at the island - Dick leaning in towards Damian, showing something on his phone - and Bruce is at the opposite end with a mug of tea.

You hover in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight of your family together. “If either of you have eaten any of my food, I’ll kill you.” Dick and Damian spin around on their bar stools, comically wide-eyed. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”, Dick cries, clasping a hand over his heart and collapsing onto Damian. The younger boy shoves him off with a scowl.

“Don’t worry-“, Bruce says, a slight chuckle evident in his tone. “They know to behave when I’m around.”

Of course, there’s still tension between you and Bruce, but there has been ever since you became Starling; the whole family has issues with him, but you’ve all learned to work around it. At this table, he’s not Batman, he’s Bruce. You can put aside your differences for now.

You smile, and slip into the seat next to Dick. “These boys don’t know the meaning of behaving. They’ll give Alfred a heart attack soon enough.”

“My heart is perfectly robust, miss.”, Alfred says as he slips a plate in front of you. “It would take more than Master Dick and Master Damian’s antics to finish me off.”

“Antics?”, Damian instantly questions.

Dick grins as he shovels a forkful of food into his mouth. “You walk around the house with a sword strapped to your back, Dame. It stresses _me_ out and I’m not even here most of the time.”

Bruce cocks an eyebrow at Dick. “You were troublesome as a Robin, too.”

“Oh, god.”, you shudder. “I’m glad I wasn’t around to see that Robin suit - the shorts, Jesus, it - ew.”

Dick shoots a side glare at you, then turns to face Bruce. “I was called the Boy Wonder for a reason. Everyone loved me!”

“That’s right. But I spent a lot of time cleaning up after you, too. I’m glad you grew out of your excitability.”, Bruce says, and sips at his tea. You see Dick tense, just slightly, beside you - it’s been years since he was a Robin and Bruce still criticises his performance. You know it’s not necessarily meant in a bad way, but you’re definitely grateful that you were Nightwing’s protégée and not Batman’s.

Alfred must sense the tension growing in the air, too, because he’s quick to change the subject. “Master Damian, how are you finding your studies?”

Damian’s at one of the most prestigious schools in Gotham, and despite his young age, he’s making progress in leaps and bounds. You really do think he’s got a shot at being the smartest one in the family when he’s older. Tim would disagree.

“Easy. My classmates are idiots, but they mostly leave me alone.”, Damian shrugs. He takes a bite of his food even as Dick looks at him in horror.

“You mean you don’t speak to people at school?”, Dick asks. Damian just tuts.

You do worry about how Damian’s going to cope socially. With Dick in Blüdhaven most of the year, it’s fell to you to teach the youngest Wayne how to improve his people skills. 

“Can you please try to make some friends?”, you say gently, leaning around Dick to meet Damian’s eyes. “I’ll worry about you otherwise, when I’m... away.”

“But they’re all such children!”, he snaps, shovelling another bite of food into his mouth and turning away from you. He may be a trained killer, but he’s also still a petulant child at times.

“You’re a child too, son.”, Bruce chastises. “It’ll do you good to learn to be around more people.”

When Damian’s frown only deepens, Alfred jumps in. “Might I suggest, Master Damian, that you view this is a challenge? Perhaps you could set yourself a goal, as you do with your Robin training.”

You silently thank God for Alfred - the way he always knows just what to say - because a sly grin comes over Damian’s face and he gives a small nod. It’s not quite as good as him wanting to make friends just _because_ , but it’s progress.

“I don’t know what we’d do without you, Alfred.”, Dick grins. He’s right: the family would fall apart without him.

“He’s had a lot of practice.”, Bruce replies. “Plenty of awkward children have passed through this house.”

Thick silence settles over the room instantly. You can tell Bruce regrets his words as soon as they leave his mouth, the way his jaw tightens tells you that much, but they’re out and everyone thinks the same thing and no one says it: _this family is two people smaller than it should be._ You don’t look at the empty chair next to you.

This family doesn’t talk about things. This family just works through it silently and alone, and throws people in prison, maybe breaks a few spines if things are really bad, but they don’t _talk_ unless it’s alone with Dick and on drugs and somewhere in the early hours of another fucked-up morning; the elephant in the room never quite goes away but it’s never addressed and you don’t think it’ll ever get better.

They don’t talk about things. They don’t kill. You wonder if they’ll talk about it when you kill Joker.

How will it feel, to kill? To take a life? Some people enjoy it. That’s why they do it, serial killers - they get off on murder, they crave the sensation of flesh breaking under their knives or a throat giving way to their fingers, they need to see the life leave someone’s eyes, over and over again. Some people hate it. They only do it because it’s necessary, the right thing to do for the greater good, and they hate themselves for it anyway.

Where will you fit on that spectrum? You’d like to imagine you’ll be the latter. That it’ll haunt you for the rest of your life, but you’ll be able to comfort yourself with the knowledge that you did it for your best friend and the people of Gotham. And that is a part of it, it really is - you so desperately want to make the world a better place than you found it - but the thought of watching the Joker bleed out around a bullet _you_ put in him? It conjures up something in your stomach that’s somewhere between nausea and giddiness.

You push your plate away. You’ve lost your appetite. You mumble an apology to Alfred and he waves it away.

Dick squeezes your hand reassuringly, and you just stare at him. How does he do this? He lost his parents - he lost Jason Todd - he lost Tim - he’s done this four times and you’ve done it once and it’s tearing you up from the inside out.

You’re suddenly craving more pills. Although you only started taking them as part of this fucking insane plan you’ve cooked up, God did they make you feel good, and most importantly they made this all go away for a few hours. 

The rest of the meal is quiet. Dick and Alfred make small talk, with Damian occasionally making a remark, but you and Bruce are silent. You don’t mean to be awkward, and you try to laugh along with Dick’s jokes, but you can’t find it in yourself to think of anything worth saying.

Dick pulls you into the pantry as Alfred clears away the plates. “Promise me you’ll call me if you need anything.”, he says, holding you by your shoulders and fixing you with those bright blue eyes.

You swallow. “I... I need time away from everything, Dick. It doesn’t mean I love you any less, you know that, it’s just... you know.”

He nods, but his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “I know. But you might change your mind, or miss us, or need to talk to someone who understands what really happened. Promise me you’ll call.”

He doesn’t deserve any more pain in his life. “I will.”, you say, and you hug him tight.

The goodbyes come at 9PM that evening. Bruce has arranged for a car to take you to the airport tomorrow morning, for someone from the rehab centre to meet you on the other side of the country. He offered to take you himself - _no_ , you’d said, _but thank you for everything you’re doing_. He’d understood.

It happens the night before you leave because the car is booked for 4AM. The media would jump at the chance to get a photo of you leaving Gotham, so it’s best to do these things at a quiet time, and young Damian needs as much sleep as he can get.

“It’s just for a few months.”, you say, as you embrace Damian and ruffle his hair. Although he still tenses a little under touch, he doesn’t even move to push you away. “You’re gonna be a lot bigger when I next see you, though. You might even be able to teach me a few things.”

“Only if you teach me what I asked.”, he says coolly, and you tut at him. There’s a short moment where he just looks at you, those big green eyes unreadable and blank, and then he actually fucking smiles at you. “Don’t take too long.”

Dick is next. You know each other well enough that you can practically read each others’ minds, and everything that needs to be said between the two of you has already been said; you just hug him and whisper a thank you, and he winks at you when you pull back.

When you come to Alfred, he pulls a small black box from his pocket. Upon your questioning look, he says, “Unfortunately, this wasn’t my idea. You have Master Bruce and the two boys to thank.”

He opens the lid to reveal a silver charm on a delicate chain. A starling. It’s clearly made with expert craftsmanship, probably cost a stupid amount of money, but it’s gorgeous and thoughtful and you almost tear up.

The elderly man fastens it around your neck with a soft smile. “You’ll be sorely missed while you’re away, but I do hope you’ll come back the better for your absence. No matter what happens, miss, you’ll always have a place here at the manor.” You clasp his hand in yours and return his smile. 

Bruce doesn’t embrace you, he doesn’t smile at you or tell you he loves you - it’s not the way he does things. As much as the two of you have disagreed in the past, you know how much he cares. There’s no point in him changing his ways now.

“You’ve got some gear in your bag? Just in case?”, Bruce asks, and you nod. You’re not technically lying, but you’re careful about it anyway.

“Good. Don’t let yourself get out of practice. We’ll need you when you come back.”, he says. And then - “Take as much time as you need. Alfred’s right - you’ll always have a place with us.”

You don’t know how much more of this you can take without one of them figuring you out, and you’ve asked them not to make a big fuss anyway, so the five of you soon part ways. Alfred heads to bed (as robust as he is, he’s getting on in years and you don’t blame him for needing some rest). Damian and Dick go into the TV room, and Bruce retires to the Batcave.

The layout of the manor means you have to pass Tim’s room on the way to your own. You pause for just a minute outside the door, hand resting on the cold metal of the handle, before pushing it open. You don’t bother to close it behind you: you’ll only be in here for a second.

On Tim’s desk, tucked away behind his laptops and papers and folders, there’s a framed picture of the two of you. It was always a struggle to get him to take a photo - practically impossible, actually, between tearing him away from work and getting him to stand still - so it’s a selfie you snapped.

It was taken at a charity event last year. You, Tim, and Dick would take it in shifts to drink at events like that, because at least one of you had to be sober in case someone tried to blow up the event. That night, it was Tim’s turn to be sober; you and Dick had got a little too excited with the champagne and you’d ended up the perfect, happy, giggly kind of drunk.

Vaguely, you remember taking the photo. Tim looked so tired of dealing with boring old businessmen and you wanted so badly to cheer him up, so you brought him one of the fancy cupcakes he never allowed himself to eat and practically shoved it into his mouth. He was mid-bite when you whipped your phone out and pressed your lips to his cheek, snapping a picture before he could really realise.

You trace your fingers over the glass fondly as you study the picture. Tim’s hair, as always, rustled from running his hands through it. The little specks of cake on his nose and chin. The slight smear of lipstick you left on his cheek during your drunken lunge at him. And, most importantly, the glimmer of laughter in both of your eyes.

You flip the photo frame around, and quickly undo the latches on the back, removing the photo and holding it carefully by the edges. Once back in your own room, you slip it into an evidence bag - morbid, but it’s all you have - and then into the side pocket of your bag.

You’re doing all this for Tim Drake, after all.


	5. Evocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even vigilantes get to take breaks sometimes. You use yours to eat a shitty vegan pizza with your best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curran Walters’ Jason Todd was WRONG there are 3 kinds of cops - dirty, useless, and stupid as fuck

“ _I bet you gave them quite a **shock**.”, Tim’s voice echoes through the alleyway, just as you slam your escrima stick into the last thug’s temple and he collapses to the floor._

_You turn to the source of the sound - he’s perched on top of your bike - and a smile spreads across your face. He won’t be able to see it, given your mask, but it’s good to see him. You’ve been in Blüdhaven with Dick for the past week, and being away from the manor is starting to make you homesick._

_Shaking your head, playfully, you snap your escrima sticks back into their holsters. “You need to work on your wordplay. That was disappointing, to be frank.”_

_“Fuck. I’m trying.”, Tim sighs, huffing the words out and blowing his hair out of his eyes at the same time. “Batman isn’t exactly the best teacher when it comes to humour.”_

_“That’s true - I definitely have the advantage there. I can’t even imagine how dull patrol must be with him.”, you laugh, nudging him off your bike so you can pull a few pairs of handcuffs from the storage compartment._

_“It’s not that it’s dull, I do enjoy working with him. But I just... I wish I’d learned how to pull off the badass one-liners, you know?”, Tim continues. You shoot him a questioning look, then turn back to the pile of unconscious thugs._

_“It’s like... Nightwing always makes the perfect joke right before he knocks out the bad guys. He’s a lot to live up to.”, he says, and you chuckle._

_“Trust me - hang on, help me with these guys-“, you reply, tossing him a pair of cuffs. “Trust me, the world doesn’t need another Robin running around, making puns at every opportunity.”_

_Tim snaps the cuffs around one of the thug’s wrists, and pouts a little. “You know what I mean.”_

_You do. It’s been a few weeks since you started coming out onto the streets as Starling - before then, it was just vigorous training and helping Oracle - but the immense pressure to perform is still getting to you. Working under Nightwing, as kind as he is, is a big task. He pushes you hard, and he asks a lot of you, and that’s without even starting on the public’s obsession with him. You can only imagine the pressure Tim’s under._

_Working under Batman himself? Competing with Dick Grayson, the Boy Wonder? Becoming Robin not even a year after the last one died? It must be awful; it would be for anyone, and Tim’s hardly the most self-confident person you know._

_You quickly glance at the three men on the floor in front of you, just to check that they’re still unconscious. Upon confirming that the coast is clear, you speak in a quiet voice._

_“Hey, hey, Tim - you’re your own Robin. You don’t have to live up to anyone.”_

_The white lenses of his domino mask cover his eyes, but you can imagine the look in them. You’ve seen it often enough - you’re probably the only person in the world Tim’s able to come to for comfort. His lips twitch upwards just a little, hinting at his gratitude for your reassurance, and God you want to punch his parents for leaving him so insecure._

_That doesn’t mean you need to be so serious, though. Of course Tim trusts you, but he’s got a bad habit of shutting down if he has to talk about his emotions too much, and you don’t want to push him. “You really do need to fix your puns, though. Maybe the strong, silent type is more your speed.”_

_He hums thoughtfully as you tap a few buttons on your wrist, sending your coordinates to the GCPD; there’s no way you’re hauling these guys halfway across the city to put them in a jail cell._

_“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just be the genius detective, solving every crime instantly, impossible to outsmart - I’ll let the rest of you handle the fighting and shitty puns.”, he says._

_“You’re already the genius of the family-“, you reply, grinning even wider, as you pull your grapnel gun from your belt. “You don’t need to rub it in. Come on.”_

_The grapnel gun makes a satisfying **crunch** as it hits the edge of the roof - you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of the sound - and, as you’re pulled up to the top of the building, you know you’ll definitely never get tired of being able to fly. Tim soon follows, rolling through the impact, you swing your legs over the lip of the roof so you’re sat._

_“I take it you’re not in the mood to deal with the police right now.”, Tim says after sitting next to you. He’s right - normally you’d wait and speak to them, fill them in on the situation, but these guys have been on the wanted list for a while. You’re confident that even the cops, incompetent as they are, can figure this one out._

_“One of them asked for my number last week.”, you add, as an afterthought. It genuinely pissed you off and you need someone to vent to about it. “Can you believe that? He called me ‘baby’ and everything.”_

_Tim’s face twists up in scorn. He doesn’t reply, but you know he’s just letting you rant, so you continue. “I mean, me and Dick had just dragged some pedophile into the station - this guy had been abducting kids for months, what a fucking sicko - and he was kinda fucked up, you know, we got a few more punches in than we needed.”_

_“That’s fair enough. I don’t blame you.”, Tim mutters with a shudder, and gestures for you to continue._

_“Yeah, we cracked a rib, it was so fucking cool, I love doing this - anyway, we basically had to carry him into the station and the guy at the_ _front desk just looked me up and down and went, ‘ah, you’re badass. I haven’t seen you around before, though. How about you leave me your number so I can get to know you a little better, baby?’”._

_Tim snorts. “That’s disgusting. Even I can flirt better than that. What did you do?”_

_“I mean, I was gonna tear into him - there was literally a child abductor on the ground in_ _front of him and he was trying to flirt, it was messed up - but Dick just told him to do his job.”, you go on. “He sounded like a disappointed dad but that’s kind of scary coming from him, and this guy just wilted.”_

_“God, I’m so glad I was born a man. Dealing with guys like that must be impossible.”, Tim says, speaking up a little now that police sirens are starting to head in your direction._

_You nod. “I don’t get why he was doing that when I’d obviously just beaten a man to a pulp, either.”_

_“Maybe he was a masochist.”, Tim suggests, a small smirk starting to creep up on his face. You’re glad he wears a domino - his tone is always so dry, you’d be hard-pressed to gauge his reactions otherwise. “He might have wanted you to beat **him** to a pulp.”_

“ _Fuck off.”, you instantly reply. You don’t want to even entertain the thought._

_Tim shrugs. “Hey, you said it yourself, I’m the genius here. Don’t talk to me if you don’t want me to figure things out for you.”_

_You scowl at him, making sure to exaggerate the expression so he knows just how much he irritates you, and then look back down into the alleyway. A few police cars have pulled up now. The cops are milling around, a handful of them dragging the unconscious thugs into the cars, and a few others staring up at you and Tim. You’ve noticed people tend to do that._

_“That’s Robin, right?”, you hear one of them exclaim in delight. “God, I loved him when I was a kid. Used to wear shorts all year round so I could be like him.”_

_Another cop - neither of them can be much older than you - looks up at Tim. “You think it’s been the same guy the whole time? He’s not wearing the shorts like he used to. You think he got too buff for them, or something?”_

_You snicker, and Tim’s smirk only grows. They probably can’t see you, given that you’re not dressed in the same colours as a children’s soft play area (Bruce kind of messed Tim around with the suit, you have to admit), but they definitely know Robin’s watching. Do they_ _think he can’t hear them?_

_“Nah-“, the first cop says after a moment of deliberation. “You might be onto something there, man. With it being different guys.”_

_“Crap, yeah!”, the second replies, and you see his eyes widen even from your perch on the rooftop. “Maybe Batman gets a new one every year, or something, you know?”_

_The first one narrows his eyes. “What, you mean like a new Robin every January? Like a New Year’s resolution or some shit?”_

_You can feel your grin creeping up beyond the top of your mask: this really is just too good. Cop number two nudges the other with his shoulder, still staring up at Tim. “No, not like that, obviously - come on, man - but maybe he gets a new guy every year and trains him_ _up different. To stay ahead of the bad guys, you know?”_

_“Maybe he adopts some kid every once in a while, and trains him up as Robin. You think?”, the first one replies, and they fall into contemplative silence._

_Well, fuck - you didn’t think they’d get that far. Your smile freezes on your face, and Tim stiffens beside you. Bruce has somehow managed to get this far without arousing any suspicion, but expanding the family means that the risk is increased; anyone managing to figure out your identities would be disastrous. The air is heavy and thick for a moment._

_Then the cops burst into laughter, turning away and heading back to the cars. “Yeah right, man.”, one chortles, and the other has_ _an idiotic grin plastered across his face. A shaky sigh escapes you._

_Tim climbs to his feet once the cars have pulled away, dusting off his suit. “The stupidity of the average person never fails to amaze me, you know.”_

_You lean forward, enough that your centre of gravity is just off, so you’re balanced precariously on the edge of the roof. All of this - running around on rooftops, flying, acrobatics - is still relatively new and it’s so **exciting**. You savour the adrenaline rush for a moment longer before standing._

_“You’d think they’d make cops pass some basic tests, right? Surely?”, you ask, stretching your back out. Dick’s training is tough and it’s left you full of muscle knots._

“ _They do. That’s the worst part of it.”, Tim says. “That’s why we have to do all the work.”_

_“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m actually really enjoying doing this.”, you reply. It would be nice to be able to rely on the cops, though._

_Tim cocks an eyebrow at you. “Because it’s cool?”_

_Obviously. This is the coolest thing you’ve ever done and you’re not even onto the big stuff yet._

_“And because it’s the right thing to do!”, you’re sure to add on. His eyebrow rises even higher_ , _and you sigh. He’s always seen right through you. “But it is really fucking cool, too.”_

_“What are you doing in Gotham, anyway?”, Tim asks. The sudden change of subject would probably jar anyone else, but you’re used to it - Tim often flips between trains of thought without really realising it. You suppose it’s a sensible question, anyway._

_Waving your hand off in the general direction of the prison, you explain. “Dick found some stuff on that pedophile’s computer that hinted at a human trafficking ring coming through the area. He wanted to spend a few days over here, to see if he can get anything out of the convicts in Gotham.”_

_Dick’s job as a cop in Blüdhaven definitely comes in handy at times. He may only be able to do so much within the force itself - most cops are either bad, or busy covering for the bad ones - but the benefits it has for fighting crime are incredible. You’ve got access to most of the case files and criminals in the state, and it shaves a lot of time off investigations._

_“And he’s letting you roam free already?”, he presses. His voice is level, curious, but you_ _can still sense the undercurrent of surprise. Come to think of it, this is one of the first times you’ve seen Tim out as Robin without Batman nearby._

_Your eyes flicker down to your feet. You shouldn’t feel guilty about this - it’s not your fault, exactly - but you do anyways “He wanted to see if I handled being alone, I guess.”_

_Tim’s expression shifts, so slightly that it would be imperceptible to anyone not looking for it: there’s a hint of jealousy on his face and then it’s gone, replaced with a dry smile. “You did well - I wasn’t even worried I’d have to step in.”_

_You roll your eyes at him, gladly taking the chance to change the subject. “What were you doing on top of my bike, then?”_

_“Stealing it, obviously.”, he quips. “That’s what you get for going to Blüdhaven. Traitor.”_

_Although you enjoy working in Blüdhaven, and you appreciate that it’s possible for a city to have too many vigilantes running around, you miss Gotham. You miss Tim even more. It’s only been a week, but it feels too much like you’re falling out of contact for your liking - between both of your duties, you haven’t even texted in five days._

_When Tim stops sending you shitty memes on a 3AM caffeine-fuelled Internet binge, you know it’s getting bad. “Sorry”, you say, sheepishly. “I’m still adjusting to the double-life thing.”_

_“It doesn’t get much easier.”, Tim warns, pointing an accusatory finger. “But that’s no excuse to forget about your closest friend.”_

_He’s only joking, but there’s a spark of guilt in your stomach at his words. God knows he doesn’t need any more abandonment issues._

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry - but you’re just as bad! Have you forgotten about the time I had to show up at the Wayne Enterprises building and pull you away from your desk? You’d been there for nearly 48 hours!”, you reply. It’s often easier with Tim to roll along with it._

_“Shit. You’re right. How disastrous.”, he shrugs. “Do you want to grab some food?”._

_That’s the best idea you’ve heard all night - who knew fighting crime could work up such an appetite - but it’s not like you can just drop by a pizza place in full gear. Upon voicing your thoughts, Tim taps a finger to his temple._

_“I know - I think ahead, though. I’ve brought you some clothes from the manor. They’re in one of the drop spots, a few buildings over.”, Tim says, and you smile at his foresight. He must have seen you and Dick leaving Blüdhaven on his scanner, or maybe Oracle let him know, and rushed back to the manor to get you a change of clothes._

_“Okay, genius.”, you smile, breaking into a jog towards the edge of the roof. “You’re paying, though.”_

///

_The diner is quiet, but not empty - it’s only around midnight, on a hot summer night, and there’s a few other people scattered around. Thankfully, none of them seem to recognise you or Tim. Maybe it’s too late and they’re too tired, or maybe they’re wrapped up in their own conversations, but you’ll never quite get used to people approaching you on the street._

_You both order vegan pizza. Bruce and Dick would have your heads if they knew you were eating pizza, probably will as soon as you go back to the manor, but the least you can do is make it healthy. Besides, you’ve been force-feeding yourself vegetable-based food for months now, and you think a regular greasy pizza might just kill you._

_“So-“, you say, through a mouthful of food, “What have I missed in the last week?”_

_Tim’s hand immediately flies into his pocket to grab his phone. He pulls up a picture, shoves it across the table at you, and mumbles, “Look at this shit.”_

_It’s a picture of a letter, handwritten, reading: **Dear Timothy Drake. I’ve been a huge fan of yours since Bruce Wayne adopted you. I follow you on all your social media! I know you don’t really post but you should more. Anyway, I wanted to write to you to tell you that I’m your biggest fan!**_

**_I search your name on Twitter every morning (oops) because I just love seeing photos of you. Your hair is so cute long! I really hope I’ll_ ** _**get to meet you one day. Please consider doing meet and greets, I’m saving up all my allowance for tickets! I guess you must be** **really busy now you’re at Wayne Enterprises (so cool) but I promise I’ll be first in line!**_

**_I’m even going to start a fan club. It would mean soooo much to me if you would check it out. I’ll send you another letter with the details! I hope you have a great day and that this makes you smile!_ **

**_Lots of love, a secret admirer <3_ **

_You look up at him gleefully, only to find his_ _face twisted into a wince. “...No way. No fucking way! You’re getting fan mail now?”_

_Tim looks like he’s in physical pain when he responds. “I didn’t think it would happen. I really thought I was safe.”_

_This is absolutely fucking brilliant. This is fantastic. This is one of the best things you’ve ever seen. You can’t wait to tell Dick. You grin widely at Tim, and take another bite of pizza; the pained look doesn’t leave his face as he takes his phone back._

_“You’re gonna have a fan club, Timmy. Isn’t that great?”, you tease, even as he rubs at his temples. “God, just think - I can leak photos of you to them. They’ll love it! How about that one -“_

“ _Please don’t.”, Tim whines. “I’m not interested in being a celebrity.”_

_You aim your slice of pizza at him, cocking an eyebrow. “Unfortunately for you, Timothy Drake, you are one-“_

_“-a minor one-“, he tries to interject, but you don’t have it._

_“-because you’re the adopted son of a multi-billionaire, the most eligible bachelor in Gotham, and you’re on track to be one of the youngest CEOs in history, and you were at a party with Oprah last month.”, you continue, relentlessly, still waving your slice of pizza in his face._

_Tim sighs. “You were at that party too. Why don’t they start a fan club for you, instead?”_

_“One of life’s great questions. I can live with it, though - as long as you don’t let the fame go to your head and leave me.”, you concede. As fun as this is, you do feel kind of bad for Tim - he’s never wanted fame and he’ll probably appreciate the reminder, however sarcastic, that you’ll be there for him._

_He shakes his head, and quickly glances around the diner to check none of the other customers are listening in. “Maybe I’ll just announce to the press, I’m gay.”_

_“Uh-uh, that’s Dick’s territory.”, you say, and his face falls even more. “The family already has one bi-con. I mean - he’s snapped up all the gay. The press will never believe th_ ere’s _another one in the family.”_

_“I’m doomed.”, Tim says miserably._

_“Shut up and eat your pizza.”, you grin, prodding him under the table with your foot. “You’ll lose your fan base if you get too skinny.”_

_He huffs, but obliges. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, another question clearly pops into his head. “Are you looking forward to going back to school?”_

_You know he misses school. He doesn’t regret dropping out, exactly - he was miles ahead of anything they taught - and it was a necessary move. Better to be a dropout on the way to being a CEO at 17, than stuck bored out of his mind in school for another year, right? It would’ve drove him crazy._

_“It’s gonna be weird without you.”, you admit. You just know his absence is going to make you all the more aware of everyone else’s stupidity. “And hard with, uh... the new sleep schedule.”_

_Tim hums out a small laugh. “You’ll manage. One more year and you’re done.”_

_“God, Tim, don’t remind me - what am I meant to do once I leave school? I’m not_ _exactly keen on the idea of leaving the area, you know.”, you say. You’d be able to get into any college you wanted, but leaving Gotham would mean giving up the mantle, and there’s not a chance in Hell you’re doing that._

_“You could always come to WE. You’d be good with us. Probably make a lot of money, too.”, Tim suggests. You quickly scan his face, taking note of the exaggerated dark circles: the stress of a stuffy business environment is clearly taking its toll on him._

_Besides, going into the family business is such a cliche. “Oh, no thank you, sir - I see the way those old businessmen treat women in the industry. I don’t have the patience for that.”_

_Tim tilts his head at you, frowning. “You complain about not knowing what to do after_ _high school, then you shoot down my suggestion. I fucking hate you.”_

_“Not all of us are as sensible as you. Maybe I want a wild few years before I settle into a job.”, you shoot back, reaching for another slice of pizza. Or maybe you just don’t know what you want yet. That’s fine too._

_“A wild few years?”, Tim says. “You don’t mean partying on Wayne money every night, I hope.”_

_“Yep-“, you laugh, popping the ‘p’, “I’m gonna become a party animal. The black horse of the family.”_

_He stares at you, straight on, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I can already smell Bruce planning an intervention.”_

_“I can’t wait! Now, please can we stop talking about my future before I have a panic attack?”, you respond, and Tim nods. “We haven’t had a proper catch-up in forever. How’s stuff going at the company?”_

_“Pretty well, actually. Aside from some people not taking me seriously because I don’t have grey hair yet - it’s good.”, Tim says between bites of food._

_He’s always liked proving himself, proving other people wrong, and so you give him a knowing look. “I bet you made them regret doubting you.”_

_“The profit margins speak for themselves.”, Tim states simply, but when you raise your eyebrows, his mouth twists up into a lopsided grin. “I may also speak for the profit margins._ _From time to time.”_

_“Good. Stick it to them. You get to be a cocky asshole when you’re raking in millions.”, you agree. He deserves to feel proud of himself for this._

_“Hey, now, no one said cocky. Or asshole. **You’re** the asshole.”, he replies, narrowing his eyes at you, although the smile still stays prominent on his face. It’s soon wiped away by a yawn; he waves down a waitress and asks for a coffee with a polite smile. _

_You have the decency to wait until she’s out of earshot to hiss, “Another fucking coffee?! It’s nighttime!”_

_Tim just shrugs. “It’s not that bad. I have some paperwork to look through once we get_ _back to the manor.”_

_Gaping at him, you push the jug of water on the table towards him. “You’re addicted to caffeine, Tim! Just take a nap every once in a while! Or - you know - actually sleep!”_

_“Working my way to the top of a company means I actually have to **work**. I just need a few hours of energy.”, Tim says, as though it’s not ridiculous. Like you won’t find him in approximately 36 hours, practically vibrating from sleep deprivation, stood staring at the kitchen wall._

_“You need an assistant or something, at least.”, you insist. You feel like his mother. “Something to lighten the workload a bit.”_

_“Are you offering?”, he challenges, always too_ _stubborn for his own good. His tired eyes have a spark of mischief in them: he knows he’s getting to you._

_“Don’t be such a sexist. You know how insulting that is? Assuming I’ll be an assistant, just because I’m a woman?”, you instantly fire back. He just scoffs playfully at you, and turns to thank the waitress as she places a mug in front of him._

_“Cut him off!”, you call after her as she heads back to the counter. Tim kicks you under the table._

_“Ow, fuck!”, you spit, leaning down to rub at your shin. “Fuck! Are you wearing steel-toed boots or something?”_

_“Regular old Vans.”, Tim grins. “I just know_ _not to skip leg day.”_

_You scowl at him as you straighten back up - no doubt you’ll find a bruise on your shin in a few hours. It’ll be a nice addition to the collection you’ve got going. “I resent the implication that I do skip leg day, Tim.”_

_He sips at his coffee and averts his gaze, looking every bit the shit-stirrer he is. “I mean, if the shoe fits...”_

_“I’m going to tell your fan club you’re looking for a girlfriend.”, you retort, and you relish in the way his eyes widen. A small laugh escapes you, and you take a sip of your own drink._

_“Speaking of girlfriends,” Tim says after a moment. “Do you think you’re going to get a boyfriend this year?”_

_“This better not be the part where you tell me you’ve been in love with me since we were kids.”, you warn, jabbing a finger in the air to punctuate your words._

_He fakes a small gag into his coffee cup. “Hardly. The paparazzi seem to think along those lines, though.”_

_That’s true - ever since you moved into the manor, the media have been going crazy over your supposed relationship. One would think they’d have better things to report on, given Gotham’s tendency for drama, but apparently not. A hostage situation or bank robbery barely makes the front page these days._

_“Ah, I see - you’re plotting for me to get a boyfriend to quell the rumours. Genius.”,_ _you say. “Unfortunately, every man I know disgusts me.”_

_“And you call me a sexist.”, he counters. You’re briefly struck with the fact that his coffee cup is already half-empty, and you fix him with a disapproving glare._

_It’s hard to resist the temptation to complain, though, and so you take the bait. “I’m serious! Every boy at school is just... ew. And there’s barely anyone our age at the events we go to.”_

_Tim takes another sip of coffee - how his hands aren’t already shaking, you have no idea - and hums in thought. “What’s wrong with the guys at school? Some of them were nice, I thought.”_

_“That’s the point! Like, yeah, they’re **nice** \- but that’s it. There’s nothing more to them. It’s boring, you know?”, you lament. You’re fully aware that you sound like a bitchy teenage girl, but that’s what you are, and you’re also fully aware that Tim secretly enjoys it._

_He shudders. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those - the girls who love a bad boy.”_

_“What’s wrong with that?!”, you cry in indignation. He’s hardly one to judge; at least you admit you feel things for other people, rather than pushing it down and trying to act like you’re above teenage hormones._

_Tim waves a dismissive hand. “Basic bitch.”, he mumbles into his mug, and you’d have half a mind to kick him if it didn’t make you laugh_.

“ _Come on, Tim-“, you try to defend yourself, a little breathless with giggles because Tim trying to use Internet slang will never not be funny to you, “You can’t tell me bad boys aren’t sexy. Come on!”_

_“Are you serious?”, he presses. You can see the genuine curiosity, somewhere just beyond the obvious desire to tease you._

_Oh, well. He’ll just find something else to talk about if you rise above. “Obviously! You know, the guys in films, the ones with all the guns who wear leather jackets? Fucking up the bad guys? It’s kinda hot.”_

_Tim’s nose wrinkles up in disdain. “Leather jackets? You have worse taste than I thought, God.”_

_“You’re horrible - fuck you - but I’m right! And the ones with scars, don’t even get me started-“_

_“-So you want a man who’s been through Hell?”, Tim cuts you off, pausing to finish off his coffee. “That’s fetishising trauma. You disgust me.”_

_You lean back in your chair, tiredness starting to hit you now, and roll your eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s just sexy. Besides, if either of us ever end up in a serious relationship, we’re gonna have to get with someone who ... understands what we do. You know?”_

_He purses his lips in thought, waving over the waitress: she comes to give you the bill, and Tim doesn’t answer until he’s pulling his wallet from his pocket. “I’m not sure anyone will ever_ _really understand it. It’s... a lot.”_

_“You think?”, you ask. It would be nice to believe you’ll find someone who gets it, one day. “I’m not sure. I think the right person would understand - Jesus, Tim, leave a better tip than that, we’re rich - especially someone who’s been through stuff. Someone who’s seen shit.”_

_Tim pauses again. He does love a complex question. “Not everyone deals with trauma in the same way as us. I think we’re kind of the outliers, to be honest.”_

_A thoughtful silence falls over you as you leave the diner, walk to the car, and climb in - Tim got his license almost immediately once he turned 17, and it’s definitely proving useful._ _It’s not until he turns the key in the ignition that you speak again._

_“Tim?”, you ask quietly, barely audible over the purr of the engine. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing? Dealing with stuff like this? You’re right - no one else does it.”_

_The neon lights of the city illuminate his face as you watch him: the faint bruise on his jaw, and the deep bags under his eyes, and the permanent slight frown between his brows. You wonder if you look the same, now. You wonder if you’ll spend the rest of your life like this, hiding bruises and bandages under long-sleeved shirts, never quite getting enough sleep, always chasing down another bad guy._

_“Yeah-“, Tim says after a minute. There’s no trace of doubt in his tone. “I do.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg... reader likes bad boys... in leather jackets... with guns... I may have went a little heavy on the foreshadowing here I am SORRY


	6. Stratagem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet Red Hood in Blüdhaven, and work on teamwork. It’s the start of what will be a long few months together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait... i could lie and say ive been busy but really ive started 3 new smut fics bc im a hoe for the batboys... anyway enjoy my dears

You feel Red Hood before you see him, sense him just behind you, close enough that you’d be able to feel his breath stirring your hair if it weren’t for your hood and that stupid mask he wears. 

“Boo.”, comes his voice, twisted and deep and taunting through the modulator, but for the second time now you hear his real voice underneath it.

There’s a short moment where you don’t turn to face him, instead taking in the view of the port’s lights reflecting on the surface of the water - at least here, Blüdhaven’s stench is overridden by sea salt - and savouring the breeze on your face. Wearing a domino isn’t exactly what you’re used to, but you can see why Tim chose it.

Then you look at him. The second you turn, you’re greeted with his blood-red mask: the lights catch and dance on it like the water. Once again, you find yourself craning your neck up to meet his eyes, because he’s so impossibly tall and so hell-bent on getting in your personal space and he’s already pissing you off a little.

He probably shouldn’t be, though, so you push it away. “You found me quickly.” You’ve got to give it to him - you’ve only been here for around an hour.

Red Hood takes a step back and cocks his head. “I wasn’t even trying. Could’ve found you the second you got within city limits, if I wanted to.”

You suppose it’s natural for him to want to show off; it’s a way, however roundabout, of establishing himself. A warning sign, a reminder that he’s just as intelligent as you are. He was trained by Batman. Maybe that’s why you, too, suddenly feel an itch to prove yourself to him.

“It’s not like I was trying to hide, though.”, you shrug. “Why would I?”

The laugh he huffs out in reply is short and smug. He doesn’t answer any more than that, but one of his hands drifts towards the lining of his jacket and you hiss, “Do _not_ pull another weapon on me, Red.”

He pulls out a phone and shakes it at you. “We on a nickname basis now, little bird?”

Well, now you just feel stupid - you suppose, though, given his reputation and the fact he had a knife at your throat last time, your reaction was justified. You scowl at him, finding that a domino is making it much easier to show your expressions.

“I’m sure you started calling me that within five minutes of meeting me.”, you say. “Besides, we’re a team now. You can’t expect me to call you Red Hood all the time.”

Red Hood chuckles a little. “So we _are_ on a nickname basis. No points for creativity on your end.”

Your scowl deepens, but you can sense the smirk rising on his own face. Is he going to be like this the whole time? Smug, goading, cocky? Why does he seem to take so much pleasure in mocking you?

“‘Little bird’ is hardy inventive, either.”, you fire back, crossing your arms. It’s hard not to feel like a petulant child, but, hey, he started it.

“You want me to call you something else?”, Red Hood retorts. He’s not even looking at you, instead fixing his gaze on his phone as he swipes onto something.

“God, please do.”, you say, and crane your neck a little to see what’s on the screen. 

Red Hood makes it easier for you by shoving the phone into your hand, revealing a data encryption app. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Now be good, and upload the data I asked you for.”

His voice is positively dripping with sickly sweet sarcasm; you don’t take the bait, this time, because this partnership will never work if you just let everything he does get to you. You’re perfectly capable of being the bigger person as long as he chills the fuck out soon.

“This tech-“, you say as you pull up the files on your own phone. “It’s advanced. Really advanced. Where did you get something like this?”

The idle conversation does little to distract you from what you’re doing - uploading the location and contents of every safehouse Bruce has across the states -, the weight of it, the fact that this is where the betrayal truly starts. You could stop this right now, one last chance to turn back: you could put your phone away, go back to Gotham, and burn the Red Robin suit.

You don’t. You set up a wireless connection between the phones and start transferring the files and it makes you sick to the fucking stomach, but you do it. The domino mask is suddenly leaving your face much too exposed, and it’s hard to hide the shame you feel.

“Friends in high places. I scratch their back, they scratch mine.”, Red Hood says as he tugs his leather gloves up higher. The cold must be getting to him, too, and you find yourself hoping that wherever you’ll hole up for the rest of the day has heating.

The upload progress bar slowly ticks upwards. “Did you scratch their back with a gun, by any chance?”

“Some of them.”, he replies. The wind mists droplets of seawater onto the phone screens as he speaks. “Can’t risk people running their mouths about my business.”

You quickly glance around the docks; it’s still early, and you picked a quiet spot, so thankfully no workers are nearby. “Hmm. Just don’t start pulling guns on me.”

Red Hood’s phone pings as the final file is transferred, and he plucks it out your hand and starts scrolling through before you can even react. “You said it yourself. We’re a _team_. Keep your end of the bargain and we’ll be fine.”

You don’t miss the sarcasm that keeps cropping up in his tone. It’s like the very idea of teamwork, of cooperation, is a joke to him. Or perhaps it’s just you. As much as it pains you to admit it, you’re self aware enough to know that you’ve never quite managed to carve out a name for yourself. Something away from Nightwing, that is.

It’s only been around a year since you stopped being his student. You’ve been moving around between cities ever since: Gotham and Blüdhaven, obviously, but also up and down the East Coast, dealing with organised crime in cities that aren’t lucky enough to be full to the brim with vigilantes. The constant movement has meant that your reputation is scattered across the eastern seaboard, and you’re not half as notorious as the rest of the family.

You suppose it doesn’t matter now. You’re Red Robin now, and Red Robin is well-known in this area - it feels strange and maybe a little wrong, taking Tim’s identity like this, but at the same time it feels like the only just option. Red Robin will be even more famous after killing the Joker.

“You’re acting like I haven’t just given you information that other people would’ve paid millions for.”, you state bluntly.

Red Hood snaps a gloved finger your way, as if he’s motioning for you to be quiet. He doesn’t look up from the phone. “Gotta make sure it’s all here.”

“It is, I-“, you insist, but he just snaps again and you know he’s not going to listen. Finally, after a few minutes of silence, he slips the phone back into his jacket and meets your eyes.

“Good job, little bird.”

“Stop calling me that.”, you grit, and he laughs. “Anyway, have you realised I’m good for my word now?”

His shoulders strain against the leather of his jacket as he shrugs. “You’ll learn not to trust people as much as you do now.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t trust you?”

Red Hood cracks his knuckles, and the sound is audible even over the waves lapping at the docks. “Nah - I’m one of the good guys.”

“So am I, Red.”, you retort, “But you just checked every single file I uploaded anyway.”

“You struck me as a good girl. Wasn’t sure if you’d just hand over daddy’s information like that.”, Red Hood drawls. This jab really gets to you, right under your skin and straight to your chest, more than superficial frustration or annoyance, this is genuine anger, _surely_ he has some idea of how hard it is for you to betray Bruce-

You take a deep breath. “He isn’t my dad. I just... lived there.”

The distinction means more to you than you like to let on. Bruce Wayne is not your father: he had no obligation to take you in, or to fund your education, or to give you the life you lived at the manor. He’s a deeply flawed man and you know it all too well, but he didn’t have to do any of what he did for you. For all of you.

“Mhm. You better not be a rich, spoiled fucking princess like the rest of them. I’m not gonna put up with your tantrums if you don’t like how things go.”

“Fucking - Jesus - why don’t you stop making jabs and just trust that I’m actually a decent partner?”, you snap, finally letting your anger get the better of you because you don’t like being called spoiled, and you _hate_ the way he spits ‘them’, like your family are bad people; you shove a finger into his chest to drive your point home and you swear your bones nearly shatter against the hard muscle.

Red Hood wraps one hand around your wrist, holding your hand in a vice grip up against his chest. “You’re just proving my point, kid.”

You try to wrench your arm away, once, twice, but honestly you’re hardly surprised when you barely even move - it was worth a try, but Red Hood is huge and he could easily crush the bones in your wrist if he wanted to. Instead, you step into the hold, using the momentum to launch all your weight into him so he staggers just a little, lifting his free arm to steady himself, and then you use your own free arm to jab an elbow into his ribs.

The angle of the hit isn’t fantastic, but it’s good enough considering the awkward positioning, and Red Hood hisses and his grip on your wrist loosens just enough for you to pull free. You move to step back, maybe deliver a cocky one-liner so he gets a taste of his own medicine, but suddenly he’s lunging at you and grabbing your elbow, and the other arm goes across your body and he’s flipping you right over his shoulder.

You slam onto the floor hard. Thankfully, you manage to roll onto your side before you hit, tucking one arm under your head so you don’t split it open on the concrete, but the impact still knocks the breath right out of your lungs and you’ll have a nasty bruise on your shoulder soon. 

Red Hood steps to stand at your side, dusting off his jacket. “Stop being a fucking brat.”, he growls. He sounds genuinely angry, this time.

“Stop being a dickhead. We’re a _team_.”, you pant up at him. There’s a few seconds where he just looks down at you, that blood-red mask obscuring any expression he might be making, and you do your best to hold his gaze even as you heave for breath.

Then Red Hood sticks out a hand. You briefly consider not taking it - fuck him, he’s the one who put you on the floor in the first place - but, then again, you have just thrown a fit over him not treating you like a partner. You take his hand and clamber to your feet.

“No more chances.”, he warns. “Don’t ever pull that shit with me again.”

You reply with an equally cautionary tone, although yours is more breathless. “Yeah. Just don’t make me want to.”

Not bothering to give you a response, Red Hood turns and begins to walk, towards the warehouses where you stashed your gear an hour ago. They’re run-down, mostly empty; Blüdhaven’s economy is hardly booming, leaving most of the docks abandoned. It’s the perfect place for you to hide your equipment.

Perhaps it’s not quite as secure as you’d imagined, though - you follow Red Hood, and he makes a beeline for the exact building you were in earlier. It’s like he can read your mind when he speaks.

“You really couldn’t think of anywhere better to store your shit?”

“I’ve never had anyone find it before. Were you watching me?”, you ask. You find yourself having to walk just a little faster than you normally would to match his pace.

Once you reach the door to the warehouse, Red Hood doesn’t even bother to test if it’s unlocked: he just kicks it straight in. “No. Other people were.”

Stale, still warehouse air fills your lungs as you follow him inside. You shoot him a quizzical look - you hadn’t noticed anyone tailing you, and to say you’d been careful was an understatement, considering that this is Dick’s city. 

“Don’t know what you expected. Red Robin vanishes for a month, then shows up in Blüdhaven?”, he elaborates.

“It’s not like I’ve done anything here- I wasn’t hiding, I knew you needed to find me, but all I’ve done is wait for you. I didn’t even see anyone nearby - I mean, there _wasn’t_ anyone nearby.”

Having indicated for you to gather your gear, Red Hood lets you step in front and lead the way to your drop spot. “Some lowlifes have nothing better to do than hack into security cameras. All of them like to be paid.”

So, he’s had people watching for you. You’re not sure whether to be flattered or offended. “Friends in high places.”, you mutter. The warehouse is vast, but luckily your things are stashed not far from the door, behind some broken machinery and underneath a loose floor panel.

A rat dashes out when you lift the panel, and you’re grateful that you’ve only left your bags there for an hour. Hopefully, not enough time for anything to crawl into them. It’s a tight squeeze: you’ve not exactly packed lightly, given that you’ll probably be living out of these bags for a few months. You drop to your knees and begin to pull them from the cavity.

“Jesus. You really need this much?”

You flip him off over your shoulder. “Yeah. Are you gonna help me? You’re huge, it’s only fair for you to carry some bags.”

“I’m not your fucking pack mule-“, he says, nudging at one of the bags with his foot, but you cut him off by turning and giving him a pointed stare.

Red Hood tips his head back to the ceiling and huffs out a quiet sigh - clearly he doesn’t play well with others - before reaching down to effortlessly haul the first bag onto his shoulder. You make the effort to mumble a quick _thank you,_ then reach down and grab the next bag.

“How’d you even move all this shit over here from Gotham? Can’t imagine you’d fit it all on that little bike.”

“I rented a car - under another name, obviously - didn’t your spies tell you that?”, you explain. As you toss the next bag behind you, you hear the rustle of the evidence bag in the side pocket. It’s the photo of you and Tim. 

The vigilante at your back doesn’t seem to notice the sound, or he just doesn’t care. “I only had them tell me where you were. Wish I’d asked for more info now, though - the amount of fucking bags you have.”

You smirk. “I told you, it’s all things that I actually need. You won’t be complaining when you see some of the tech I’ve got.”

“Hmm. You gonna play at being your Oracle?”, comes Red Hood’s reply, paused in the middle so he can pull the bag onto his shoulder.

Sometimes you forget that he was a Robin. Not forget, exactly - of course you know it, you wouldn’t be here with him and he wouldn’t be Red Hood at all if he hadn’t been - but it feels like a detached connection. As if, somewhere between dying and coming back, he forgot about the life he had. That he forgot about the family’s identities, and Bruce’s secrets, and everything else he could hold over your head.

He doesn’t show any sign of using it against you yet, though. “No-“, you shrug, because there’s no point in denying her existence. “But I can watch people if I need to. Hack stuff, too.”

“You ever watch me, little bird?”

 _Yes_.

“Only when I have to.”, you say levelly. “I have to keep tabs, you know? I didn’t want to risk you turning into a murderous vigilante - oh, wait.”

A chuckle spills through the voice modulator. “You forget why you’re here with me?”

With a small grunt, you drag the last bag from the space under the floor, and fix Red Hood’s mask with another withering glare. “That’s different. I-“

“Ah-ah. We’re no different. Other than me being _better_ at it, that is.”, he interjects. He’s carrying almost every bag you brought here, yet there’s no trace of exertion in his voice.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are nothing more than an out-of-control, hubristic, murderous vigilante. Maybe you’re going to tarnish Red Robin’s name. It’ll be worth it to watch the Joker die. The prideful part of you rears its head at his teasing, desperate to once again jump out and defend you, but you’re not eager to be thrown over his shoulder again.

“...I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of.”

He turns to head back to the door once you’ve secured the last bag on your shoulder. “Depends how you look at it. Some people see it as a necessary evil. Me, I know I’m doing something good. It’s what those psychos deserve to have done to them - everyone else is just too scared to do it.”

You have to admit, Red Hood’s moral code seems to be strict; he protects innocents, where he can, and he only kills the worst people. Although you’ve been taught to incapacitate instead of kill, you can respect that he’s done a lot of good for the city. The occasional torture seems a little much, though.

You don’t tell him any of that. He must know that you at least somewhat agree with him on a moral level, otherwise you wouldn’t be hunting down the Joker with him - besides, he’d probably love the power rush if you told him you respect what he does. 

The path he leads you on through the docks is twisting, seemingly random, but you assume he must be moving through the blind spots of security cameras. It’s dark enough that, aside from the floodlights scattered around the area, most of your surroundings are draped in deep shadows. Sunrises in winter come late here, but it must still be early.

Not yet 4AM - the family won’t know you’re absent from the manor yet. The knowledge comforts you. You know for a fact that Dick will check in with his eyes in Blüdhaven as soon as your room is found empty, and he’s well-connected, and he’s going to figure out who’s playing at being Red Robin and he’s going to head straight for the city.

You’ve got time to hide. He won’t find you and Red Hood. Dick, for all his fantastic qualities - a powerful leader, passionate, dynamic - has always let his emotions get the better of him. You _know_ how much you leaving will crush him, and God it makes you want to cry, enough that he’ll lose control and his temper will flare up too much and he’ll get sloppy. 

Bruce and Damian will come, later in the day, when they hear that Dick was too upset to find your trail. You know how they think, and you know how to hide from them. It’s fucking shameful, using your knowledge of them against them like this, but Tim taught you how to read people. Dick developed the skill. They should never have taught you, if they didn’t want to risk you reading them, right?

Somewhere along the way, once you’ve reached the chain-link fence that signals the edge of the docks, Red Hood motions for you to lead the way to the rented car. The silence between you isn’t exactly comfortable - not in the way that it would be if you knew him - but it doesn’t feel awkward, either. Neither of you have anything to say, so you don’t speak, and it’s fine.

It’s not until you reach the car that you speak. You’ve tucked it away into a shadowy corner, and the no-man’s-land between the city itself and the docks has barely any security cameras, so you don’t worry about Oracle seeing you.

“What’s the plan?”, you ask, spinning on your heel to cock your head at Red Hood.

He pops the trunk open, starting to shrug your bags into it, before replying. “I’ll drive. We’ll take a detour so your little friends don’t pick up the scent. Should be at one of my apartments within an hour.”

‘Friends’ comes from his mouth harshly, dripping with venom. You make a mental note not to bring up your training with Dick if at all possible. Red Hood grabs the bags from your shoulder before you get the chance to put them in the trunk yourself, and then stalks to the driver’s side of the car and climbs in.

A final, quick scan of your surroundings reveals that there’s no one nearby, no one watching. You’re confident in your abilities, of course, and you don’t like to be paranoid: however, you can’t help the bubble of anxiety pulsing in your stomach. 

///

The safehouse is, similar to the apartment in Gotham, clean and orderly. Having swapped cars in a quiet parking garage, and brought the bags up to the apartment, Red Hood disappears into a bedroom with a mutter of _you’ll be able to find what you need yourself_ and locks the door behind him. Honestly, you’d be annoyed at his bluntness, but you’re too exhausted.

A quick glance at your phone reveals the time: 04:02. Not your latest night by a far cry, but you suppose you can chalk the tiredness down to stress. Red Hood explained in the car that you’ll only leave the apartment at night - your own face is too known by the media to go out during the day. At least you’ll be able to sleep through the days instead of working now.

It’s for that reason, plus your own curiosity, that you decide to explore the apartment. Aside from the room that Red Hood went into, there’s another small bedroom, a tiny bathroom, and a kitchen attached to the sitting area. In the cabinets, you find some scant medical supplies, a few bottles of whiskey and vodka - you’d expected that - and a good amount of food. Mostly dried, and disgusting, but still a good amount.

Red Hood’s dragged an air mattress into the spare bedroom, which he must have been using as a weapons storage given the amount of guns pushed up against one wall, and you laugh inwardly at the thought of him blowing it up. You can’t imagine him without that stupid fucking helmet. There’s even a few pillows heaped up at the head of the bed, and a thick comforter.

It’s surprisingly considerate of him, you have to admit; he could have easily just thrown everything into the room and left you to deal with it, or made you sleep on the couch. You would’ve expected as much given the way he speaks to you.

The winter chill has soaked right through your suit and through to your bones, despite the thermal layer Tim worked into the material, so you slip into the bathroom and under a hot shower. Normally, you’d play some music, but you’re hesitant to disturb Red Hood given the effort he made with your room, so instead you shower in silence and, naturally, your mind wanders.

Naturally, it wanders to the family. They’ll know you’re gone, now: Alfred will have slipped into the room to wake you and found it empty, and he’ll have told Bruce, and Bruce will have told Dick, and Damian will have woken up from all the commotion. You can see it clear as day in front of your eyes, the frown lines deepening around Bruce’s eyes, Damian’s expression hardening, the cogs in Dick’s head turning. He’ll be the first to figure out what you’re doing.

You don’t cry - you just make sure to shut all of the drapes when you get out the shower. Soon, your exhaustion overcomes you, and you fall into a deep sleep that you don’t wake from until after midday.

“You always sleep that much?”, Red Hood asks as you emerge from the bedroom. He’s stood in the kitchen, next to the toaster, and the mask is still on. The leather jacket is notably absent, as are the weapons and holsters, and the outer protective layer of his suit has been discarded to reveal a simpler layer underneath.

You, on the other hand, are dressed in a warm pair of pajamas. At least you made the effort to smooth your hair before you left your bedroom. “Do you always cook food with a helmet covering your mouth?”

As you finish the question, the toaster pings, and a pair of Pop-Tarts jump out. You cock an eyebrow at Red Hood, who flips you off and tips them onto a plate. “Sweet tooth.”

The thought of such sickly sweet food so soon after you’ve woken up makes you feel nauseous, so you settle for a bottle of water from the small refrigerator. Red Hood calls for you from the sitting area - well, more like demands that you join him - and indicates for you to sit in front of an open laptop.

“Read that. I’ll be back in five minutes.” With that, he retreats back into his own room, plate of Pop-Tarts in hand, and leaves you to skim through the files he’s left open on the screen.

You fucking _knew_ Penguin’s guns were going to the Joker.

Red Hood must have been collating information from other sources, as well as his own observations, because there’s a vast quantity of files within the folder he has open. There might even be enough to rival some of the data on the Batcomputer; tracking logs of Penguin’s shipments, email conversations between him and someone who you presume is the Joker, and a variety of other information.

It all points straight to your original conclusion, the one you shouted at Bruce during one of your disagreements weeks ago: the Joker is taking nearly fifty percent of Penguin’s monthly imports. That’s not even considering the implications in the emails, that he’s getting specialised weapons from other sources, too - the correspondence goes back months, the shipping logs almost as long, and Penguin himself seems to be struggling to keep up with demand now.

Joker’s buying enough guns to supply an army. Who’s he planning to go to war with? You remember Bruce telling you he was taking an interest in Damian - Robin - and you wonder if he’s planning to take away another little bird from Bruce, maybe take Nightwing too, before he goes full-out and blows Gotham up for the fucking fun of it, makes the city burn and watches Bruce crumble and then finally, finally kills Batman-

You can’t let that happen. And, right now, you can’t throw up on Red Hood’s couch, so you push the laptop away and drop your head into your hands and rub at your temples. You need to focus. You’re doing this for a reason.

Despite the vast quantities of information Red Hood’s managed to gather, there’s still nothing that hints at the Joker’s location or motives. Some of the emails are only partially decoded (they must have been heavily encrypted when they were sent), and there are patches of weeks where information is missing. You’ll have to speak to Penguin directly to learn more.

The sound of the bedroom door opening prompts you to lift your head and straighten your back: being caught with bad posture still reminds you of how Dick would reprimand you if you didn’t keep yourself straight. Red Hood is nothing like Dick, but still, you can’t help the little wave of embarrassment that washes over you.

“I’ve been watching him too - Penguin - but, shit, I didn’t realise it was this bad. I had suspicions, you know, but... shit.”

Red Hood lets the tap run over his empty plate as he replies. “Been going on right under your nose for a while. Mine, too. Didn’t have the time to look into it until lately.”

You push up off the couch and join him in the kitchen area. God knows you need a cup of coffee before you start to strategise.

“Please tell me you keep caffeine somewhere around here.”, you groan, pushing your hair back away from your face and hoping that you don’t look too much of a mess. You doubt Red Hood will care, exactly, but this is only the fourth time you’ve actually spoken to him, and the first time without a mask to provide security.

He tips some soap onto a sponge and begins to scrub at the plate - you’re beginning to suspect that he’s a slight clean freak. “You should eat when you wake up, not drink coffee.”

“Tim got me in the habit.“, you say, before you can really think it through, and it slips out so easily, so casually, that you _almost_ miss the pang of grief in your chest that always comes with the mention of his name. Almost.

“The cupboard on your left.”, Red Hood says. He doesn’t appear to notice the way your breath hitches after you speak.

Again, silence falls between you; not forced, not awkward, not comfortable, but just there. You almost giggle to yourself as you make your coffee, at the strange domesticity of the scene, standing in the kitchen with a masked, murderous vigilante you barely know. The next few months might play out like this, you think, and you wonder for a moment if you’ll ever actually get to know him beyond what you can glean from the surface.

“So-“, you start over your coffee. “I take it we’re going to find Penguin, right? It’ll be a good start, since he’s been in contact with the Joker - or someone working for him - for a while.”

Red Hood’s sprawled out across the couch, and for the sheer size of him he fills it entirely, so you’re left to settle into the smaller armchair. “Wow. Genius plan. I heard you were a strategist, little bird.”

You fight back the urge to lean over and punch him right in the exposed, unarmoured, stomach. “I mean, we’ve gotta start somewhere, Red.”

“Mhm. He’s gonna be here in Blüdhaven tonight.”

“On business?”, you ask, taking another sip of coffee. It’s just a shade too hot and it nearly burns your tongue, but you drink it all the same.

“Jesus, were you actually the fucking strategist?”, he drawls, but he seems to catch himself and his tone isn’t quite as harsh when he carries on. “ _Obviously_ on business. Shipping regulations on the docks here are even looser than in Gotham.”

Although you’re curious to know just how Red Hood got his information, you know the answer will just be vague, and his sources seem reliable enough. Instead, you ask, “Do you know what the shipment’s gonna be?”

“Guns - a few explosives, nothing major. Maybe a few dozen kilos of heroin.”, he explains. The mention of the drugs slips out like an afterthought - it sounds like it’s tacked on the end, rather than being something he’s genuinely considered - and you’re suddenly reminded of his suspected involvement in East Coast drug rings. He’s got to fund all this equipment and all his apartments somehow, right?

All you know for certain is that he shoots people who sell to kids. It’s the only reason you don’t press him further on the subject: besides, you doubt he’d reveal much. You put the thought out of your mind and refocus on the case at hand, but your face twists in discomfort after a moment of thought.

“Cobblepot’s smart - I hate to admit it, but he really is. If he figures out that we’re sniffing around the shipment, he’ll hole up somewhere and we won’t be able to get to him.”

Red Hood nods. “So we won’t go near the guns.”

Now, that - that you don’t drop. Surely, knowing that a good portion of the weapons are going to the Joker, he can’t expect just to let it go ahead? Then again, staying away from the weapons will ensure that Penguin doesn’t catch wind of your presence until it’s too late.

“Are you serious?”, you say, carefully. “Stopping the shipment... it could benefit us a lot in the long run.”

He shifts on the couch, settling further in, and the movement draws your eyes to his form for just a second. Without the jacket and armour, you can see much more of him - namely, the thick muscles in his arms straining his t-shirt, and the defined ridges of his abdomen underneath the material. It’s natural for you to size up everyone around you like this, and you quickly decide that he’s easily got weight on Bruce.

“Not as much as speaking to Penguin will benefit us.”, Red Hood says. He’s got a point - this is a clear lead on the Joker, the kind of opportunity that rarely presents itself. You’re faced with a choice: information, or prevention?

You sigh. “Okay - we’ll leave this shipment alone. If I get a chance to slip in and put a tracker on any of the trucks, though, I’m going to.”

He shrugs, and you take it as agreement. “You’re not scared of guns?”

God, the urge to strike him just keeps getting stronger. “Of course I’m not! I’ve been shot - I know I can handle it.”

“You get shot this time and I’m gonna have to dig it out of you. You won’t have daddy’s nice medical tech. Think you can handle that?”

“I _know_ I can, Red.”, you grit with a scowl. A little too much challenge creeps into your voice, and you’re prepared to apologise before this turns physical again, but he chuckles and moves on.

“I had some friends look into who Penguin’s coming here with. It’s a small group. Should be easy to take out.”, he continues. You don’t like the connotation of his words.

“Let’s not use lethal force on a bunch of Penguin’s guys.”, you attempt to reason, and you can feel the interest in his gaze as he turns the mask to study you. “...They’re not worth wasting your bullets on, right? We can leave them for the police to deal with.”

“And what happens when your Nightwing gets to them? You think any of those scum will keep their mouths shut about us once he starts asking?”

Fuck - Red Hood’s right, Dick’s likely to stay on your trail wherever you leave one, or Bruce will pick it up if Dick gets too sloppy. Criminals will blab about anything if they think it’ll keep them out of trouble. You’re not eager to leave any information on your activity for the family to follow, and you’ve planned to avoid leaving breadcrumbs wherever you can; anyone who sees you interrogating Penguin is a liability.

“You said it’s a small group, right? We can sneak in, or I can since I’m... well, subtler - anyway, we can get the drop on his guys and knock them out before they know what’s happening. We can take Penguin somewhere private, so no one hears what we ask him.”

Red Hood takes a few moments to consider your words. “There’s only one way to guarantee that Penguin doesn’t talk.”

“No-“, you counter, drawing your feet up so you’re cross-legged on the armchair. “No! I understand shooting some people, but Penguin? Come on! Just toss him in a jail cell.”

“Do you want us to get caught before we finish the job, little bird?”

As reluctant as you are to put a bullet in Cobblepot - he’s hardly worth the trouble, and having him around is actually useful at times - you can’t deny he poses a risk to you and Red Hood. Bruce knows how to play him, intimidate him, and Penguin will hardly try to protect you. He’s a rat who will do anything he can to protect himself, which leaves you only one option: you have to intimidate him more than Bruce can.

The words that fall from your mouth disgust you, but you know they’re right. “He has a daughter in New York. A year younger than me, I think. She’s got a different surname, meets with him in private - I only figured out she existed a few months when I was going through his bank history. He pays for her apartment in the city.”

Something in Red Hood’s posture changes: he seems bigger, now, more imposing. “Think we should threaten to pay her a visit?”

“Yeah, but you have to promise you won’t hurt her, she’s got nothing to do with-“

“-Your little friends are too good to hurt a civilian like that. Cobblepot knows that.”, he cuts you off. “They bring up her name, it means nothing to him - he needs to be _scared_. If I promise him I won’t hurt her, what impact will it have? 

You tip the last dregs of coffee down your throat. “I know that. I want you to promise me you won’t hurt her. She’s done nothing wrong.”

“You’re forgetting I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”, he says. “Threats don’t mean shit if you never follow through.”

Arguably, he’s right. You sigh. “Look... I don’t think Penguin will talk, as long as we go about it right. If it comes down to it - and it won’t - I’ll deal with her. She doesn’t need to be hurt, just scared a little. I can do that.”

“Oh, you wanna start handling my business now?”

“I’ve told you we’re a team, Red. It’s both of our business. I think I can handle a nineteen-year-old rich girl.”, you reprimand him. He grunts in response, and you move into the kitchen to wash the coffee mug.

“You’re practically the same as her.”, he calls after you, after another moment of silence. The constant references to your age, even though you’re only two years younger than him, and your wealth, despite the fact that you’ve worked for everything in your bank account, are really getting under your skin. 

You curse at him over the running tap. “Fuck you. You think I’m the same as every socialite my age? You think the rest of them are running around doing stuff like this?”

Red Hood laughs, the smug laugh that you’re quickly learning means he’s trying to get to you, and moves around the sofa, so he can stand and lean against the back of it to face you. “Ah. You’re one of a kind.”

The sarcasm gushes from under the mask almost as much as the running tap; you scowl at him. “Are you gonna keep making digs, or are we gonna make an actual plan for tonight?”

“Hmm.”, he replies, crossing his arms over that thick chest. “Gotta lift some weights first. This body doesn’t come from nowhere, sweetheart.”

You fake a gag as you return the mug to the cabinets, and he chuckles before continuing. “Shouldn’t take too long. You can start on the strategy. It’s what you do, right?”

“I guess.”, you nod. “I mean, I’m hardly sticking to my track record at the minute - it’s not like I’ve ever vanished with a murderer before. But, yeah. I can make a plan.”

“Don’t fuck it up. Won’t get another chance to speak to him for a while after this.”, Red Hood warns.

“You sure you don’t need me to come spot you with the weights? I wouldn’t want you to, you know, push yourself too hard and hurt yourself.”, you say, sweetly, with an exaggerated smile - subtle digs are okay, right?

He turns and heads for his bedroom. “Don’t fuck it up. And eat some fucking breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Penguin have a canon daughter??? Does Red Hood canonically like Pop-Tarts??? Who knows but this is a self-serving fic


	7. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You embark on your first mission with Red Hood as an ally. How were you meant to know he's too built to fit into an air vent?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i am SORRY for the wait. i've actually been busy this time but like i still apologise. i also apologise because this is how writing this chapter went - me: it's an x reader fic. focus on jason. me to me: MORE PLOT

Blüdhaven’s docks stretch over around five miles of shoreline - it was once a fishing city, Dick taught you - and most of the area is identical, rows of warehouses, flickering floodlights, stacks of shipping containers. It’s incredibly unremarkable; notably run-down, perhaps, but in keeping with the rest of the city.

The illegal weaponry coming through the docks is equally unsurprising. Red Hood was right, when he said that Blüdhaven has loose shipping regulations. They’re probably the most lax on the entire East Coast, and it’s for that exact reason that Penguin will be bringing the majority of his shipments through these very docks. 

Dick should have stopped this. This is his city, his own turf, and the fact that he’s been letting this go on right under his nose is uncharacteristic. You’d understand him letting it slide over the past week, given your mental breakdown and his insistence on staying in Gotham, but Penguin’s been doing this for months - surely, Dick should’ve at least picked up on it and reported it to Bruce.

He hasn’t, though, and you suppose it’s worked out in your favour. You suppose that Blüdhaven has plenty of other problems to distract Dick. Right now, Nightwing’s somewhere in the north of the city, chasing a trail of breadcrumbs you’ve carefully left in your wake: it’ll lead him as far away as possible from your actual location, and it’ll probably take him the better part of the night. You’ve given yourself plenty of time to deal with Penguin.

In fact, the only hitch in your plan has come in the form of Red Hood’s shoulders. 

“Are you sure you can’t just, like, curl up any smaller?”, you ask, staring up at the air vent on the side of the warehouse. He’s already pulled the cover off, and he’s currently hanging by his grappling hook in a rappelling position, inspecting the inside of the vent.

As Red Hood responds, it’s through the comm link - and it must be set up from the inside of his helmet, because his voice isn’t distorted by the modulator, and you hear his real voice for the first time. There’s a definite Gotham accent, paired with a certain smoothness to it that you hadn’t expected, when he says, “Not gonna happen. You’re gonna have to go in alone.”

He presses the extension button on the grappling hook and drops down to stand beside you, leaning back against the warehouse with his arms crossed. By his posture, you can just sense that he’s waiting for an explanation - _don’t fuck the plan up_ , he’d said.

You sigh. “You can’t blame me for that. How was I meant to know you’re too big to fit in an air duct?”

Red Hood tuts, through the vocoder again, and slips the grappling hook back into the holster. “Thought you’d have figured it out after how you were staring at my arms earlier.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Red-“, you retort. You didn’t think he’d noticed, but it’s not as though you’ve got anything to be ashamed of. “It’s good practise to size up the people around you.”

“You did a shit job of it, clearly.”, he states. Although the bluntness of it stings a little, you know he’s right, and you don’t argue back at it. This slip-up is on you, and you’ll just have to work around it; besides, Red Hood doesn’t seem annoyed, exactly, so you assume he’s not trying to pick a fight this time. He must be focused on the mission.

Pulling up the building schematics on your phone, you contemplate your options for a moment. Your original plan was to use the ventilation system to get the drop on Penguin’s men, and have Red Hood drop down on the other side of the room (where Cobblepot would inevitably run) to take down Penguin himself. With Red Hood being too fucking big to fit into the vent, you’ll have to find another way for him to enter the building.

“There’s a maintenance room on the east side of the loading bay - here, look - with an external entrance.”, you point out, and Red Hood hums in recognition. “You could break the lock, and then come into the main room through there.”

His gloved fingers brush against your own as he swipes at the screen. “Penguin and his guys won’t be on the opposite side of the room to where I come in - see, I’ll be further down the same wall you’re dropping from. Chances are, I won’t be able to ambush Cobblepot. I’ll have to chase him.”

“He’s a foot shorter than you and walks with a limp. It’ll hardly be a _chase_.”, you say, smirking a little at the thought. 

An indignant huff leaves Red Hood’s mouth. He speaks as you double-check that your phone is set to silent. “He’ll be armed. Always is. He sees me running after him, he’ll shoot.”

The implication hanging from his words is clear: _I’m a bigger target than you, less agile, easier to hit._ Of course he doesn't phrase it like that: he wouldn't admit a weakness to easily. There are shock absorbers in his suit, you know that much, but a direct hit from a bullet will still probably knock him flat on his ass, and leave him with some nasty bruising. It’s a headache neither of you need.

“Fine. I’ll drop right on top him, and try to knock him out - or at least put him out of it for a few seconds. I should be able to get the gun away from him before the other guys realise what’s going on.”

“Right on top of him? That’s a complex move, little bird. You sure you can handle it?”, Red Hood replies. Yet again, he doesn’t sound as though he’s trying to tease you or get under your skin - it’s a welcome change - and instead he seems to be genuinely asking. Despite that, his words still irritate you, just a shade; you’re perfectly capable of doing this.

You nod. “Don’t worry about me, worry about yourself. Once I get the gun away from Penguin, I’ll focus on the other guys - I’ll let him get up and run, so you go after him. Yeah?”

Red Hood turns the idea over in his mind for a few seconds, and one hand, seemingly subconsciously, drifts to ghost over the weapon holsters around his thighs. You resist the urge to chastise him - he’s already agreed to use non-lethal force. “The other guys probably won’t be armed. You should be fine.”

“I know I’ll be fine, Red.”, you say. You’re not sure if he’s trying to reassure you - not that you need it, you’ve dealt with Penguin before - or reassure himself that you won’t fuck this up. “Now, are we gonna get to it?”

He lifts the hand that’s tracing over his guns, and taps a finger twice against your ear. “Keep the comm link open, kid.”

Then, he turns away, before you can argue and say _stop calling me that, I’m two years younger than you, and I’m just as capable_ : although, you suppose he wouldn’t care about any of that. You’ll just have to prove yourself so he stops thinking of you as some sort of child playing at a grown game. You’re young, compared to some vigilantes and socialites and businessmen, but the truth of it is, you lost your youth somewhere along the ride without even realising it.

Manoeuvring into the air vent is a little awkward, going feet-first as you hang from the side of the warehouse, but thankfully there’s enough room once inside for you to move so you’re facing forward. Red Hood must be bigger than you’d originally thought, if he couldn’t even fit into this vent, while you’re able to move fairly freely in it. The thick layer of dust coating the interior has you wishing that he’d fit, if only because you wouldn’t be the one kicking it up and inhaling it.

The earpiece crackles, and then Red Hood’s voice comes right into your ear. “Hurry the fuck up. It’s freezing.” You’re no more than thirty feet into the ventilation system, which you think is more than agreeable considering you have to crawl, slowly enough to remain silent; he clearly disagrees, though, and you can hear the demanding note in his tone. It’s much easier to read him when you can hear his voice without the modulator.

You reach back with a little difficulty, pull your phone out, and drop onto your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows to text him a reply.

_Give me a few minutes, Red! I have to move slowly or they’ll hear me coming. I’ll text again when I’m above them **(21:57)**_

There’s a rustle on the other end of the comm line, and then Red Hood sighs. “Get moving. We don’t have all night.”

_Have some fucking patience **(21:58)**_

You continue to crawl through the vents: the system isn’t overly complex, and you’ve memorised it well enough to know where you’re going, but the journey is still painfully slow. After a few minutes - in which you’re glad there are knee pads in the Red Robin suit - sounds of talking begin to drift up from the room below. You must be above the main loading dock, now, which is where Penguin and his men are.

“-and two trucks to Atlantic City, yeah.”, comes one voice. The sound echoes throughout the ventilation system, serving as a reminder that you’ll need to be as quiet as possible, just as you crawl over a small grate. Through it, you can get a glimpse of the warehouse if you press your cheek flat against the cool metal.

Although you know the basic layout of the warehouse, the contents of the interior have been a relative mystery until now. You can see piles of storage crates, a few of them open to reveal guns, and there are several forklifts; you're on the side of the building closest to the water, right up against the wall where the loading bays are. That must mean that the majority of the boxes you can see - they're piled up haphazardly, in contrast to the neatly stacked shipping containers further into the warehouse - are part of this most recent shipment.

Other than Penguin's guns, the warehouse is set out in a grid layout, long columns of shipping containers with a single, central corridor cutting perpendicularly through the centre of the room. On the far side of the building (you have to push your face uncomfortably close to the slats of the air vent to see), there are a few truck loading bays, open to the cool night air: this will be where Penguin's mens will load the guns onto the trucks, and it will also serve as his likely escape route.

You text Red Hood as much. He'll enter the building maybe a hundred yards down the wall from where you'll drop - close enough that chasing Penguin shouldn't be an issue, but it's only sensible for him to have as much information as possible. Penguin has a nasty habit of turning the simplest of plans into a shitshow.

"I'm in the maintenance room now-", he replies. "-fucking stinks. The interior door is unlocked, I've checked. Ready to go when you are."

I need a minute to figure out how I'm going to drop right on top of these guys. When you hear shouting, that's your cue **(22:07).**

Red Hood scoffs. "Thought you were trained by an acrobat. Do a flip or some shit. They'll be halfway done loading the trucks before you make a move, at this rate."

You're forced to remind yourself that Red isn't sniping at you to annoy you, probably, that he's just unused to working with others. Besides, he's built a reputation for bursting in, sudden and furious, guns blazing - it's a far cry from the waiting game he's currently playing, even if it has only been fifteen minutes and you wish he would cut you some slack.

Pushing the thought out of your mind, you refocus on the group of men beneath you. There's one fussing over an open weapons crate, perhaps checking the guns to make sure they're in working order, and a group of four men in a circle a few yards away; three large ones, burly and muscled and dressed in black, accompanied by a shorter, stouter figure, clutching a semi-automatic. Penguin.

"Alright, lads.", he says. The other men stand to attention, and the shift in their posture gives you the chance to see that none of them are armed. "I've had the crates numbered, so you know which trucks to drag them to. And I'll have none of this messing around - we've got a lot of clients waiting, lads, and they'll be very pissed off if they don't get what they ordered. Get it?"

The group is too far away for you to drop down through this section of the vent. You'll have to crawl further along, judge your position by the sound of their voices, and then knock out a panel and swing down from there. It's a risky move - you'll likely have to change your angle mid-air - but Dick has taught you more than enough in the way of aerial acrobatics. You begin to crawl forward, conscious that the group will begin to disperse soon, and close your eyes so you can hyperfocus on the sounds of talking below.

Another voice speaks, a heavy local accent this time. "But... how are we meant to move all these boxes by ourselves? They look real heavy, you know, and-"

"There are forklifts for a reason, dumbass!"

"Uh, I don't have a license to use those - I mean, I've never even been on one, man, I'm not so sure it's a good idea for me to-"

Just a few more yards-

Penguin's voice cuts in, sharp and impatient. "Fucking hell, boys, do I have to hold your hand through the whole fucking thing? Get it done!"

You slip a tool from your wrist and start to work at the edges of the panel-

"Sorry, boss."

"Yeah, sorry... uh, do we move all of the crates with the forklifts, or do we just carry some, or-"

"Fucking move it!"

It's now or never, the group is about to scatter, you need to drop down immediately or Penguin will be too far away and he'll see you coming and shoot - the panel finally pops loose from the rest of the duct and you rear upwards as much as the vent will allow, slamming your elbows down on impact and sending the panel tumbling down into the warehouse. You quickly move to grab at the edge of the opening you've created, allowing your lower body to drop down first as you take the split-second to locate Penguin, thankfully just beneath you; then, you're falling, using your grip on the vent to adjust the angle and twisting mid-air to perfect your positioning, 

The cape of the Red Robin suit slows your descent just a little, but it's enough that you can spread your arms and catch the air underneath the fabric to buy yourself a precious second. This, as confident as you are, is a complicated manoeuvre, and Penguin looks up right as you crash down onto him. You land directly on his shoulders and wrap your legs around his neck - the back of one knee to his throat, and the other thigh swinging into his jaw to knock him sideways - and he crumples, dropping the gun and falling to his side. Just before you both slam into the concrete, you unhook your legs and roll over his back, so the impact courses through your own body harmlessly and focuses solely on Penguin's shoulder.

He lets out a raw cry of pain, maybe it's dislocated or his scapula has fractured, but you ignore it in favor of springing to your feet and grabbing the gun. You pull your shoulder back and haul the weapon as far as you can, so it disappears over the tops of the shipping containers, right as Red Hood materialises from the maintenance room. The crash of the door draws the attention of the thugs.

"Shit! There's two of them!", the largest one yells. He's probably your most immediate threat, and so you pull the bo staff from your back and position yourself to attack, pretending to ignore Penguin clambering to his feet behind you. For a moment, panic washes over you - you've only ever fought with a bo staff in training - but the electricity humming in the ends of the weapon puts you at ease. This is just another fight.

You spin the staff towards him before he can react: an upwards motion, the end rushing up to connect right in the sweet spot where his jaw meets his ear. The thug yelps in pain and staggers backwards, opening up the perfect opportunity for you to swing the staff again and hit him in the temple. He drops to the ground with a satisfying thump - out of action for now. There's a brief flash of red at the edge of your vision as you duck under the punch of the next thug. Penguin is up and sprinting through the grid of storage containers now, straight towards the open doors at the opposite side of the building, but Red Hood is fast and he'll easily cut him off. 

The second man throws another panicked punch at you, easily dodged, and he grunts in pain when you swing the staff into his ribs. "Someone get a fucking gun!"

"I'm fucking trying - shit!", shouts the one who was previously fussing over the weapon crates. Between strikes of your staff, rapid-fire to beat down your current target, you can see him desperately trying to load one of the guns. The fear of being ambushed by you, combined with the knowledge of Red Hood's presence, and the sheer adrenaline of the fight - it all means shaky hands that will buy you maybe half a minute. The second thug collapses to the floor after you sweep his legs out from underneath him, and you bring the end of the staff down onto his stomach to keep him there.

Suddenly, you sense a movement behind you: _shit_ , the fourth man, in the heat of the moment you've lost track of him, and you just barely manage to dive to the side as a fist materialises right where your skull just was. You push up to your knees and arc the staff out, creating enough space for you to size up your new opponent; he's a leaner build than the rest of the men, faster and more agile, but heavily tattooed with distinctive designs swirling over his face. You recognise a sigil, just above his right temple - he's an ex-con, from Blackgate, an ex-member of the largest gang in the prison. He'll clearly be more of a problem than the other men.

You can't afford to waste any more time sizing him up, or you'll risk the other thug managing to arm himself and start shooting, so you lunge forward on the offensive. The tattooed man grins widely as you do so; many prisoners from Blackgate edge on psychopathy, and you doubt this one is any different. He sidesteps the first jab of the staff, electricity just barely grazing his skin, and you're prompted to spin it back towards you in order to deflect the blow he aims at your head - he moves with the impact, stepping behind you, so the force of it doesn't shatter the bones in his forearm. You sense this blow coming from behind, too, but this time you move to block it with a quick arc of your staff behind you-

A bo staff is vastly different to escrima sticks. Different weight, different balance, different size. You grossly underestimate the width of the arc, miscalculate the time it takes to sweep the weapon behind you, and you pay for it with a fist slamming into the back of your head. It's stronger than you would've expected, given his lean frame, but in all honesty it feels like someone's thrown a brick at you and you stagger forward, forced to prop yourself up with the staff so you don't hit the ground. He laughs behind you and sends a foot flying into the back of your knee: a cheap move, one that makes your leg buckle, and you really need to get your shit together because you will _not_ listen to Red Hood berate you over this.

The thug lunges towards you but this time you don't block, you dodge - rolling left and allowing him to stagger past you, collapsing the bo staff into a single escrima stick as you do so (thank God Tim had the foresight to adapt the weapon to close-quarters combat). He barely has time to right himself before you copy his tricks and bring the weapon into the soft spot behind his knee. A crackle of electricity has the muscle of his leg going into spasm and he collapses to the floor with a hiss, one that's swallowed up as you throw yourself on top of him and snarl, "I can play dirty too."

He writhes under your grip but you're quicker, fast enough to straddle his legs so they don't buck you off, and you rear back your arm and strike him across the face with the escrima stick, hard. A crimson spray of blood spurts out from his mouth, and you think you hear the clatter of a tooth somewhere on the concrete, but the guy just fucking grins at you and reaches up to wrap a hand around your throat, squeezing hard enough that the armoured plate sewn into your suit actually buckles under the force, and he's really getting on your nerves now so you toss the escrima stick aside and punch him in the nose once, twice, _crack_ , three times and he finally passes out.

"Jesus, Jesus, shit - boss, I got it!", comes the shout of the final man. Your head snaps up, still a little dizzy from the blow you sustained, and you see him slotting the final round of ammo into an SMG. Further away, Penguin is still running down the corridor between shipping containers - Red Hood is hot on his trail though, only a few meters behind him, blocking Penguin's body from this angle with his own - the armed thug seemingly comes to the same conclusion because he raises the gun in shaky hands and aims right for Red Hood. The shuriken you throw hits him in the wrist before he gets the chance to pull the trigger. He lets out a pathetic squeal and drops the gun, and you're able to rush at him and take him out without much trouble.

When you next look up, Red Hood is dragging Penguin towards you by the collar, the smaller man's feet scrabbling on the floor as he spits curses at the both of you. Red Hood waves with his free hand. "Look who I found, little bird."

He throws Penguin unceremoniously at your feet. "What a surprise to see you, Cobblepot. I can't say I'm pleased."

"Then get your beak the hell out of my business, and fly back to your nest, Red Robin.", he spits. He's clearly accepted defeat for the moment, making no move to run, but the disdain lacing his words is obvious.

Red Hood scoffs. "You think we came all this way just to fuck right back off?"

"Never know with you lot-", Penguin replies, sneering at you as he holds his arm gingerly at his side. "But I'll make it worth your while to let me go."

You roll your eyes underneath the domino, and turn to retrieve your weapon from where it lies amidst the unconscious henchmen. "Don't worry. We just need you to answer a few questions, and I know you're smart enough to cooperate. You won't end up like these guys."

Your companion hauls Penguin back up to his feet - blatantly ignoring the sound of pain - and pulls his arms behind his back, leaning down to speak into his ear. "Play nice, Cobblepot-", he drawls, as he ties Penguin's wrists with a length of rope strapped to his belt. "I'm not as forgiving as her. You know that."

"What the bloody hell do you even want with me? I thought a few guns were beneath you, Red Hood."

"Oh, the guns are. Don't think I'm interested in you. I'm not.", Red Hood replies, shoving Penguin back down to his knees and motioning for him to stay put. "Your clients are another story."

You busy yourself with pulling a handful of zip ties from your belt and beginning to restrain the thugs. Two ties to bind the ankles together, another two to hold the wrists behind the back: just the way Dick taught you. Enough to hold them down until the police arrive, but not so much that it would cause them any real discomfort.

"Have you really went to all this bother just for a list of names? No, you haven't. So why don't you stop beating around the bush and tell me why the hell you're here?", Penguin retorts. There's not a single trace of concern in his expression, even as you move the unconscious bodies of his henchmen; he's already in self-preservation mode, scrambling to protect his own interests, which is exactly where you want him.

Red Hood crouches next to the form of the tattooed man, and extends a gloved hand for your to throw him some zip ties. "Patience, Cobblepot. We'll get there soon."

With the first man effectively restrained, you move on to the next. "We just have to make sure your friends won't try anything stupid, first."

Penguin snorts, but doesn't argue any further. You can almost see the cogs of his mind turning through those beady little eyes. Red Hood has a gun trained on his form - his aim is true, even as he uses the other hand to secure the first zip tie around the man's ankles - and you swear you can sense his eyes studying your handiwork, even through the mask. You can hardly blame him, given the bruises that are already forming across the thug's jaw and nose.

Out of nowhere, he jolts back to consciousness with a shuddering gasp, his feet instinctively flying away from Red Hood's grasp: he snarls as he takes in his surroundings and swings a fist into the side of Red's helmet, barely even knocking your companion back, and then he rolls onto his stomach and moves to crawl away. Red Hood uses his free hand to grab the back of the man's neck, and push his head down onto the concrete - you can see the thick muscles of his arm working as the other man thrashes under his grip.

"There's always one.", Red Hood chuckles. He waves the gun a little at Penguin. "Tell him to stand down before I make him regret it."

"Do whatever you want with that one - he's not one of mine.", Penguin says. There's fear evident in his eyes as Red Hood holds the gun steady for just a moment longer, but then he turns his attention back to the man on the floor.

"You hear that? He doesn't care. I don't care. You better stop fighting me if you care about yourself."

You secure the last zip tie on the second man. "Come on, Red, you've got him on the floor and he's already taken a beating. Tie him up and let's just go."

"You gonna go all soft now, you fucking whore-"

Red Hood's hand instantly slides up to grip the man's hair, yanks it back, and then rams his face into the concrete. You sigh. "That... was a bit much."

"You're the one who broke his nose in the first place, little bird.", he shrugs. He picks up the zip ties and begins to restrain the man again.

///

"Alright, Cobblepot, let's talk business.", you say. Having secured the thugs and locked them inside an empty shipping container for good measure, you've led him out of the warehouse and into a small administration building nearby. There's a distinct lack of cameras in the building - no one would bother breaking in, there's only a few filing cabinets, so it's a perfect location knowing Oracle will be hiding amongst CCTV cameras all over the city.

Red Hood is leaning back against the door, arms crossed, and you're stood in front of Cobblepot in his chair. You're painfully aware of the good-cop/bad-cop dynamic you might end up falling into: with Dick, it was always easy to coax information out of people, he was always so charming and disarming that even the most hardened criminals could be convinced to hand over their first-born son. With Red Hood, you suspect things will go differently. He's built quite a reputation for his harsh methods.

Penguin's lip curls. "Business? You've ruined my bloody business! My clients won't be pleased at all, and I promise they'll know exactly who to blame for-"

"Shut the fuck up.", Red Hood interjects. "We're not here to ask about some low-life gangs. Give the guns to them, for all I care."

You do your best to fix him with a scathing glance, without allowing Penguin to notice. "Or not. This is quite a ring you've got running here, Penguin. I'm sure Blüdhaven Police Department would be pretty happy to find out about it."

"I already said, I'll make it worth your while to let me go. Even if you do toss me in a jail cell, we all know I'll be back out in a few months.", the man replies. You've got no intention of involving the police - it would be foolish given Dick's connections here - and you're only mentioning them to further Penguins self-preservative instincts. It doesn't quite sit right with you, working so entirely separate from the criminal justice system, but you don't have another option.

"Fine - I'll take pity. What are you offering us in return?", Red Hood says. 

Penguin's mouth twists into a lecherous grin; he's clearly pleased with how things are going, perhaps relieved that Red Hood isn't living up to his reputation so far. "You said you were here about some of my clients. Who do you want? I have my boys keep records of everyone I deal with."

"I don't think you'll need to pull up records for this one, Cobblepot. You should know him off the top of your head.", you reply, moving to lean back against the desk behind you. This room clearly hasn't been used in years - you won't be disturbing any important files, that much is for certain.

The man rolls his eyes, then glares at you. "Bloody hell, I told you to get to the point!"

"Joker.", Red Hood elaborates simply. As soon as the sound leaves the voice modulator, the smug grin leaves Penguin's lips, the confidence melts away from his eyes, and his face hardens into an almost unreadable expression. Almost. You pick up on the slight twitch of his left eyelid, the little furrow of his brow, the way his hands knit into each other behind his back. He's scared, and with good reason.

"I haven't got a clue what you're talking about."

You may understand his fear, but you're not here to be sympathetic. You pull up the emails Red Hood found, before your teammate can start using violence to get answers. "Maybe these will jog your memory. Email correspondence with him, or an alias - you knew, though, didn't you?"

As expected, Penguin's beady little eyes flash with irritation while they scan the phone screen: he can't blatantly deny what's right in front of him. You smile knowingly, giving him a few more moments to read the emails, and then put your phone away and hunch down to his eye level. The white lenses of your domino are clearly unsettling him. He's completely avoiding looking at Red Hood, though, which means he's more scared of him than he is of you. And that means he'll start talking to you, if only to keep Red off his back.

He scowls. "You can't prove anything. I never met with him in person."

"I don't even have half of your emails here.", you say, ignoring his weak attempt at a denial. "You were very careful about covering your tracks when it came to the most sensitive ones."

Red Hood laughs coldly from the door. "Could've saved yourself a lot of trouble, if you'd gone to the effort with all of them." Penguin's eyes flicker over to him, to the floor at his feet, and then back up to you. You shrug - Red Hood's right, but then again, encryption is a tricky and time-consuming process, even more so at the highest levels. 

You continue. "So, I'm assuming there's a lot of important information that he didn't want anyone to know. When Joker's secretive like this - when he forces other people to be secretive like this - it means he's up to something big, and luckily for us you've got all the inside gossip."

"Don't get too jealous, love.", Penguin sneers. You pretend not to notice the sweat starting to bead on his hairline. "It's a secret for a reason. I'd give myself a bad reputation if I went around spilling client's secrets."

You snicker, and tap the comms unit attached to your ear. A silent threat. "You won't have a reputation at all if we throw you into Blackgate."

"Talking to you lot is like going around in circles-"

Red Hood cuts in again. Impatient, curt, pushing away from the door and taking a single step towards you and Penguin. "I can start breaking fingers any second now."

Cobblepot cowers just a little, imperceptibly leaning towards you, but the sneer remains steady on his face. “I hate to break it to you, but Joker will do a lot worse than that if I talk.”

He's right, of course. The Joker's done worse as punishment for less: he's been known to have people set on fire for looking at him in the wrong way, or beaten to death by his thugs for laughing too loudly at one of his jokes. He blew up Jason Todd simply for existing. There's no way you can match that level of insanity - the very thought of it makes you sick - but you can instil fear in other ways, where necessary, and Cobblepot wouldn't have invested so heavily in hiding his daughter if he didn't want her safe. Threatening her is a necessary evil. 

“How about we pay a visit to Penelope?", you suggest as casually as you can, leaning forward a little. The very mention of her name makes Penguin go pale. You don't allow any signs of remorse or discomfort to creep up onto your own visage. "You know, in that nice apartment in Manhattan?”

"You wouldn't hurt her.", he spits. You resent the truth in his words; Dick and Bruce drilled it into you that harming an innocent is never acceptable, that there's always another way, that there's no situation in which it's justified. You're not entirely sure if you agree anymore, but the thought of bringing harm to Penelope still conjures up a tightness in your chest. Besides, you're working as Red Robin now. Tim always made sure to be as kind as possible to civilians - he would stop in the street to distract a frightened child, or stay behind after a hostage situation to comfort a scared old woman. Taking his mantle means taking his reputation, too.

You nod towards Red Hood. " _He_ would."

On cue, Red Hood steps towards the chair again. "I've got a friend in New York. Totally out of control. Likes messing up pretty faces like hers. He can be over there, keeping her company, in five minutes - unless you give us what we want."

Penguin studies the crimson mask for a moment, and then turns back to you, perhaps expecting you to promise her safety or reign your ally in. You stare him down silently. Red Hood shifts his stance to allow the glint of the knife inside to be visible: you can tell Cobblepot notices by the widening of his eyes, and the visible panic only grows when Red Hood pulls his phone out.

"Fine.", he hisses, right as Red Hood begins to type. "But don't get greedy with how much you ask for."

You decide to offer him a small mercy. Maybe it's simply to allay your own guilt. "Well done. Let's get this over with."

You slip down from the desk to stand directly in front of your captive, and Red Hood steps forward into a crouch at Cobblepot's side. The man tenses at the proximity.

"You've been in contact with Joker since May - shipping started early June, but the locations have been inconsistent. They switch every time, and they're all across the eastern seaboard. Why?", you begin. All signs point to the Joker moving location every few weeks, but you can't comprehend the logic behind such a move, other than to cover his tracks. Even then, it would be much easier to have his shipments sent to a single, central location, and disguise the invoices as some kind of company.

"How am I meant to know?", Penguin retorts, scowling at you. Red Hood inclines the helmet towards him, and you notice his tone is a little politer when he continues. "I keep him up to speed with where my shipments are going to, and he'll contact me when there's one he wants in on. He just tells me what he wants, and sends one of his own trucks to pick up the guns."

"So he's never told you where he's located? No hints at a base of operations?", you press. You find it hard to believe that Penguin hasn't tried harder to find out more.

"You learn not to ask too many questions in this line of work.", he says. 

Red Hood leans in slightly. "You can do better than that, Cobblepot." His tone is quiet, more rasp of the modulator than anything else, but there's imminent threat dripping from it and it almost sends a shiver down your spine.

After a thick swallow that you don't blame him for, Penguin responds. "One of my boys told me that a shipment went to Atlantic City. He was visiting his girlfriend and thought he saw the truck parked at the back of a casino."

This, you can work with. A physical trail is always the easiest to follow, being much more concrete than an electronic one: if you can find this casino and get inside, there's a good chance you'll find clues about where the Joker's operating from. At the very least, you'll be able to evaluate on of his weapon's caches and take out a few of his men. 

"How long ago?", you ask, rewarding Cobblepot with a slight smile for his cooperation.

"A few weeks ago, now.", he responds. You motion for him to think on it more. "Must have been just after that Wayne kid died."

He's talking about Tim. He doesn't even care enough to say his name, or he's forgotten it. The thought puts a lump in your throat, one which is quickly swallowed by a growing anger as the implication of his words sinks in - Atlantic City isn't far from Gotham, barely further away than Blüdhaven, close enough that you could drive there in under two hours. Joker _ran_ there after the murder and you could have followed. If you'd known, if you and Bruce had paid enough attention at the crime scene, you could have picked up his trail and found his hideout in the city and caught him, made him pay for what he did; you were so, so close and you didn't even realise it.

You can feel Red Hood watching your reaction. You manage to keep your face commendably blank and the smile doesn't move, but your fist tightens around the bo staff in your hand. He looks away, back to Cobblepot, and speaks. "What was the name of the casino?"

He scoffs in derision. "This was weeks ago, and I don't give a damn, how do you expect me to-"

You cock the staff back, ready to strike into Penguin's injured shoulder, and he flinches and instinctively begins to babble. "Alright, alright, bloody hell-".

A gloved hand raises, and waves for you to lower the staff. You do so with just a shade of reluctance, and force yourself to refocus. Penguin rattles off the name of the casino, and you quickly type it into your wristpiece. "Have you heard anything about him since then?"

"No. I told my boys to keep their grubby little noses out of his business, too. I'm not half as interested in him as you lot are. Best to stay out of whatever he's up to."

"You're hardly staying out of it.", you point out in response. Red Hood chuckles. "You've supplied him with enough guns to outfit an army."

"Business is business. I can always make a profit from war.", Cobblepot says, matter-of-fact and plain. The way in which he can so casually reference a so-called war, even view it as a business venture instead of an atrocity, disgusts you: you suddenly feel less apprehensive about bringing his daughter into this. Penguin is hardly the worst villain Gotham has encountered, but his mercenary attitude has him more than deserving of a little punishment. It's a small justice.

You smile, colder this time. "Is that how Joker put it? War?"

"I told you I'm staying out of it - you think I sent him an email asking what he wants the guns for?", Penguin answers, with an icy smirk to match your own. "He hasn't told me anything about what he's up to."

Red Hood hums and inches even closer to Penguin's side. "That doesn't mean you don't know. Weasels like you will always keep tabs on potential threats."

His words trigger the cogs of your mind to spin: something about the way he words it makes a penny drop, somewhere, and you quickly put the pieces of another small puzzle together. It's reminiscent of Tim's Red Robin, you think, always solving mysteries one at a time, but this one is important enough that you feel justified in giving yourself a mental pat on the back. As carefully as Penguin is guarding his information, Red Hood has just unintentionally revealed another lead. 

"The tattooed thug with you - the one you said wasn't one of yours - Joker sent him, didn't he? As someone to keep an eye on today's shipment?"

Your captive blanches. "How'd you know I was sending a shipment to him today?"

"Call it a hunch.", you say with a shrug. You don't miss the small nod of approval that Red Hood sends your way - it's not as though you need his approval, he's an ally rather than a mentor, but you can't deny that it's a pleasing feeling. "That man, though - Red Hood's right, you always keep tabs where you can. There's no way you weren't listening in on him tonight."

"Not as stupid as you look, are you?", Red Hood mocks Penguin. The other man's lip curls in annoyance, but he doesn't turn his head to meet the expressionless mask. 

"What did he say about Joker?", you say, bringing attention back to this gemstone you've unearthed. There's no way you'll get the tattooed man to talk (Blackgate thugs never do, simply because they enjoy riling you up), but whatever Penguin managed to overhear will still be a valuable source of information.

"Information like that costs extra. Agree to stay away from my shipments tonight, and I'll tell you."

It's an outrageous demand. How can Penguin expect you to let those guns go freely, knowing that almost half of them will go to the Joker? You'd originally planned to sneak back in to the loading dock, hopefully figure out which trucks belonged to him, and place a tracker on them. If you agree to this, Penguin will be watching for you. You'll never manage it. "The deal was to let you go free. The guns were never included in that-"

He cuts you off abrasively. "You agree to stay far, far away from that warehouse for the rest of the night, and I'll tell you what that idiot said about Joker. It's basic negotiation."

He's acting in self-interest, terrified of what the Joker will do if he finds trackers on a shipment no one is meant to know exists. You understand, of course you do, but this will undoubtably give you a trail even fresher than the one in Atlantic City - you can't give up this opportunity, but at the same time, passing up on hearing the words of one of Joker's men seems equally foolish.

In the end, Red Hood decides for the both of you. "You can have your weapons. We'll leave them alone. Now, I'm getting impatient, so hurry along before we really do break a finger."

Penguin practically preens, and you're half-tempted to punch the pleased look right off his face. You're a little irritated that Red Hood didn't wait for your input, but you suppose part of this alliance is trusting him to make decisions from time to time. Bruce's voice rings in your head: _there will always be more shipments to track. Get what you can from this deal._

"He was bragging to my boys while they were unloading the first batch of crates. One of mine asked him what it was like working for the Clown Prince, or something stupid like that - and that inked idiot started running his mouth about how Joker's got a big master plan. Apparently it's been in the works for months, about as long as I've been selling to him. He was being all mysterious about it, but he said Joker had some stupid name for it."

You and Red Hood glance at each other, and then motion in unison for Penguin to go on: you with a small nod, and Red Hood by grabbing one of Cobblepot's fingers and beginning to bend it backwards.

"He called it 'another killing joke'."

Your heart drops right through your fucking stomach. You know Red Hood feels something similar, by the way his shoulders tense. 

The first killing joke left Barbara Gordon paralysed, Jim Gordon traumatised beyond what any therapist could even begin to fix, and Bruce torn apart, blaming himself even now - you weren't even a part of the family when it happened but you still feel the aftershocks of it. The first time you saw Joker, even from a distance, you froze, your mind filled with images of what he did to Barbara: again, the first time Tim had a brush with him, terrified of what he would do to your best friend.

Joker has already ruined Barbara. Jason Todd died years ago - brought back, yes, but no longer a priority to the Joker. Tim is gone. That leaves a small group of people for Joker to target if he wants to crush Bruce: you, Dick, and Damian. _He's been sniffing around Damian._

Your voice is shaking. "Tell us what else he said. Now."

"That's all I overheard-"

Red Hood yanks back Cobblepot's finger with a sickening crunch. You don't even flinch, and Red Hood keeps pulling backwards until he can't anymore, until Penguin is wailing and thrashing in pain.

"That's all I heard him say! I swear! Fuck - I had them get back to work before they started slacking too much, I - fuck, fuck-", Penguin yells, and Red Hood finally lets go, standing and turning to you. Right now, you wish you had a mask as full as his, to cover the very slight tremble of your lip. _Damian, little Damian, you can't._

Your ally mimics Penguin's whines of pain. "That's all he heard the guy say. Think that's enough to go on?"

It takes a shameful amount of willpower to nod, and push past Red Hood to grab Cobblepot's shoulder. He snarls at you, tries to headbutt you, but you easily dodge it and dip one hand into his jacket to grab the phone inside. His face falls as you brandish it in front of his eyes.

"Cobblepot - give me the passcode to this phone, or your daughter won't know what hit her. I just want the emails between you and Joker, I won't look at anything else, but I swear to God, if you don't cooperate you'll regret it."

Thankfully, he gives in. You copy the documents over to your own phone silently, while Red Hood unties Penguin, and you shove the phone back at him unceremoniously. "Go. Untie your men, and sort out that weapons shipment. We'll know if anyone hears what we discussed here."

Penguin spits on the ground at your feet, then moves with a shuffling run for the door. You occupy your eyes with sorting the email documents into folders on your own phone - you can't quite bring yourself to look at that red mask yet. Red Hood knows, without a shadow of a doubt, what's running through your mind right now: he was there when Joker pulled off the last killing joke. Well, Jason Todd was. You're not sure just how much of him is left underneath the mask, but you know that his memories are all intact.

He grants you a few minutes of silence before he speaks. "You're better at interrogation than I expected."

Despite your vow to avoid mentioning the family, you can't resist the urge to bring up Dick, just this once, maybe just to bring yourself a little comfort. "Well, I learned from an ex-cop."

Red Hood doesn't tear you apart as you'd expected, but he does scoff. "Cops are useless. Wouldn't be here now if they weren't."

You finally glance up at him. "Are you implying I'm useless? I did all the heavy lifting tonight, Red."

"You did what was expected, sweetheart. You want a gold star?"

The ribbing hardly puts you in a good mood, but in a strange way, it's comforting; enough of a distraction to allow you an exaggerated scowl. 

"I'll settle for you cooking when we get back to the apartment.", you retort curtly. "I need to wash the stench of fish off myself - these fucking docks - and I'm not waiting for you to use the shower. Don't even try to argue. I took down four men with no help. You chased a cripple."

And, what do you know, Red Hood laughs - not sarcastic or cruel, but actually somewhat amused. He's got a rich laugh, even through the modulator. More human than you would expect. "You'll have to wait a few hours. We're not finished here."

You cock an eyebrow at him. "Are you planning to go for a midnight dip in the ocean?"

"Don't get too cheeky, little bird. We're not friends yet.", he warns. You'd argue, but you don't quite have the heart, and his tone reminds you of how he flipped you over his shoulder last night. There's no doubt he'd do it again. " _Teammates_ , though, and that means you're helping me with these."

Red Hood reaches into a small pocket in the inside lining of his jacket, and pulls out a handful of round black devices. Each one has a slight sheen to it and a small LED light in the centre. You pluck one from his palm and hold it up to inspect under the fluorescent lighting. "Trackers?"

"You told me you wanted to track the trucks.", he says.

You drop the device back into his palm, and sigh. "Penguin will be on the lookout for us - he'll probably call in extra guys as a precaution. There's no way either of us will get close enough to the trucks to get one underneath."

He grabs your hand back, and tips a few trackers into your open palm - he holds your wrist steady as he explains. "They're magnetic. They'll be attracted to the steel on the bottoms of the trucks as they drive away."

"So, we can just... figure out which trucks are going to the Joker - it'll be the distinct ones, since he sends his own - hide a little bit of a distance away, and throw them onto the road as they pass.", you nod. "...I'll hand it to you, Red, that's pretty smart."

"Can't say I'm not doing my bit."

You slip the trackers into your own pocket. This is a risky move: Joker might check the trucks for trackers as they arrive. They're small and discreet, though, and it's not you who will pay the price. Penguin will, and you're confident that he won't talk. You can always pay a visit to New York if he starts getting antsy. A little adrenaline starts to pump into your veins at the prospect of another mission, even if it will only be short, and you find that you can put aside your frayed nerves for now. Red Hood tells you to put your hood up against the cold as you exit the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also happy birthday mr Jason Peter Todd


	8. Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You return to Red Hood's apartment following your interrogation of Penguin, but something you see along the way makes your night even worse than it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u guys i feel like this is kinda bad i'm sorry :((( I'm just waiting to get into all the heavy flirting/tension stuff it's gonna get better i promise

You're five minutes away from the apartment, early enough in the night that the roads aren't yet deserted, when a streak of yellow flashes across the edge of your vision. Red Hood is driving, mask still on despite the blacked out windows - the dark tint is enough that you nearly miss it. It happens as you're cutting through the outer rim of the business district.

You would recognise the colours of Robin anywhere. That's Damian running across the rooftops, heading deeper into the business district, and although you don't see Batman's shadow, you know Bruce can't be far away. You'd expected them to be with Dick, instead of chasing for your trail here; Bruce must have assumed you would be interrogating corrupt businessmen for information on Joker. There's not a chance Penguin has been the only person he's been in contact with.

Red Hood glances at you. "What is it?"

He's received all the same training you have: he knows how to read body language. For a moment, you consider telling him what you saw. You're a team, after all, and a brush with Batman and Robin isn't something to be shrugged off - then again, you're all too aware of his vendetta against that duo. Perhaps it's wiser to keep this to yourself, knowing you're safe for now.

"Nothing - I'm just... thinking about what Penguin told us."

It's a half-truth, which makes it easier to lie. There's a strange part of you that feels a little guilty, though: maybe it's because you're on the same team as Red Hood now. Not friends, yet, but there's an element of trust in the relationship all the same. You should be careful about how much you obscure from now on.

The leather of his gloves stretches over his knuckles as his grip tightens on the wheel. "About Joker's plan?"

"Yeah. The Killing Joke.", you nod, and you notice there's a thick lump in your throat. You feel like you're halfway ready to cry - there's been a nagging upset in your chest ever since you left the docks, and seeing Damian has only made the sensation worse. 

"You know what happened the last time?", Red Hood asks.

You scoff in response. "Of course I do. I made a point to study how fucked-up the Joker is. If that doesn't showcase it... well, he's done plenty of other messed up shit too, I guess."

"You'd be stupid if you hadn't looked at the case files. I mean, do you really know what happened - did you look at the footage? Did you talk to _her_ about what he did?"

He means Barbara, of course. Jason Todd was Robin when it happened, he was there. He might have even saw it first-hand. You're glad you didn't. "I-no. It didn't seem like a good idea to bring it up, when I could learn everything I needed from the files. I didn't want to upset her, you know?"

"So sensitive, little bird.", Red Hood scoffs - his turn to be derisive now. "You gonna be that nice to me?"

"You'll probably shoot me if I'm not.", you mumble, and turn your eyes back to the road. It's just starting to rain, the kind that's half-snow from the winter cold, and you feel a pang of sympathy for Damian. He's still adjusting to Gotham weather, and winters here are harsher than any he's ever known; he'll be shivering in his Robin suit but vehemently denying it. You'd meant to add in a thermal layer before you'd left.

Red Hood waves a hand. "It's cute that you think being nice is so important."

You scowl at him. "Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent. You do love a good literature quote, don't you, Red?"

"Don't call me incompetent. There's a reason why organised crime rates in the city have went down by almost half since I came back."

His words are a warning, but his tone doesn't seem quite as blunt as it has previously. The Asimov quote must have impressed him. You shrug. "Just think what'll happen when the Joker's dead. I might even be able to take an early retirement."

"Early? It'll take a long time to find him. Don't get your hopes up.", Red Hood replies. "Even with Penguin's help - might end up being a waiting game."

_The flash of yellow on the rooftops._

The lump in your throat is only growing. "We can't afford to wait - he's going to kill again, Penguin just told us. It's too much of a risk to let him reveal himself on his own terms."

"It won't be on his terms. Don't worry your pretty little head about that-", he says, and some kind of strange anger swells up in you at the words. "-but we might have to wait for him to show us which one of you he wants."

You swallow thickly. Of course Red Hood doesn't know it's Damian: how could he, you haven't told him what you know, and the Joker could just have easily chosen anyone else in the family. He came for Tim out of nowhere. Something about that doesn't seem quite right - it wasn't theatrical enough for the Joker's taste, and he didn't make nearly as much of a spectacle as he normally would. You're beginning to wonder if, perhaps, the move on Tim wasn't part of his original plan. It feels too rushed in comparison to everything else you're uncovering. The thought is unsettling, right to the pit of your stomach: what happened, for things to end up that Tim died silently and alone and suddenly?

"It's Robin - Damian.", you say. Your voice is just a little strangled through the tightness of your throat.

Red Hood looks at you again, just as the car pulls to a stop in the back alley of his apartment building. "You sure? Could just as easily be you, or Grayson."

A chill dances up your spine; half because of the way his tone darkens at the mention of Dick's name, the rest of the way at the insinuation that Dick could be a target, too. You can't imagine losing the man who taught you everything you know. You don't move to exit the car just yet - you do begin to feel a headache form, though. "It isn't. I'm as certain as I can be, within reason. Joker's been... taking an interest in Damian lately. Besides, he's the only one of us actually related to Bruce, by blood, I mean. Joker probably thinks it'll crush him the most."

Your ally peels away his gloves. "Blood doesn't mean shit."

For a moment, you actually think he's trying to comfort you, in a way - implying that you and Dick are no less important to Bruce, despite Damian being his blood son - but then the tightness in his voice catches up with you, and your stomach feels like it drops through the seat. Not only have you probably just conjured up memories of his own death, and likely the same insecurities Dick and Tim had over being adoptive sons, but you've grossly misstepped by bringing up blood family. Jason Todd's mother had just as much of a hand in his death as the Joker did.

"I'm sorry.", you sigh. "I didn't mean it to come across like that. I just - I'm sorry." And, being honest, you do feel badly about it. Red Hood's intimidating and intense and he can clearly hold a grudge, but you hadn't meant to upset him. Is he upset? Angry? It's near enough impossible to study him with the mask on, and you're left to stare out the window at the alleyway.

"Don't worry about it, kid."

He sounds tense, still, but softened just a degree by your apology - maybe this will be easier than you'd first assumed. You take the chance to move on nevertheless. "Anyway - it's definitely Damian. We can't risk the Joker getting close to him. We can't. I get that you hate the family, I get that you probably hate him too because he's Robin, but he's so young, Red. He's just a kid."

Your voice very nearly cracks on the last word, but you're able to suppress it. Dick taught you the values of showing your feelings at the right times, something that Bruce never quite managed to pass on - it's half the reason why Dick's such a natural leader, his ability to inspire emotion in others, and you were lucky to learn it from him. Still, though, there's a fine line between passion and weakness.

"You're right. He's a kid, still. Kids that age don't know what the fuck they're getting into, half the time.", Red Hood responds after a moment. Something in you wants to ask, *did you, did you know what you were getting into, did you want it as much as everyone says you did*, but you're not stupid enough or upset enough to bring that up.

Tugging your hood down, you dig your knuckles further into the pressure point on your temples. "So... if the Joker gets too close to him, I'm going to do whatever I can to protect him. I'm not going to back out of this agreement. But, whatever plans we make based on what we find in Atlantic City, they go out the window for me if he manages to get to Damian before we get to him."

"Guess we better find the fucker quickly, then.", Red Hood nods, then opens the car door and heads for the fire escape. You follow suit: thankfully, this apartment is only three floors up, and you're not exposed to the cold or the risk of being watched for more than a few moments.

Once you've slipped through the window and into the kitchen, you make a beeline for the bathroom; there's a spray of blood over your face from when you knocked the tattooed thug's teeth out, and you're desperate to wash away some of the nagging panic crawling just underneath your skin. Red Hood hums to catch your attention as you reach the sofa, though, and you turn to see him rifling through the refrigerator.

"You got punched in the back of the head."

Ah, _shit_. You didn't think he'd noticed that. You shouldn't be as embarrassed as you are - taking a few hits is to be expected, at the very least - but you're hardly eager to hear his taunts right now. "Yeah. The bo staff isn't what I'm used to."

"You shouldn't use a weapon you don't know how to fight with. That's how people get killed.", he says. There's a brief flash of Dick's mentoring tone in there, but it's mostly blunt and simple. You peel away the domino mask for the sole purpose of scowling at Red Hood, and he wags a finger at you. "You've got a headache, too. Should probably check you for a concussion."

"It's a tension headache, and I don't feel nauseous or dizzy. I'm just kinda stressed, I guess. Don't worry your pretty little head about it.", you echo his earlier words, sickly sweet, leaning down to unstrap your boots.

Red Hood laughs as he pulls a few jars from the refrigerator. "You think the mask is pretty, sweetheart?"

All you want is a fucking shower. "I bet you're real ugly under that thing. I bet that's why you hide in your bedroom to eat your poptarts."

"Don't act like you don't know my face."

You do - not that Red Hood's ever been seen without the mask, but Jason Todd's face is another matter. There are pictures of him in almost every room of the Wayne Manor, the memorial in the Batcave, and the family photo Bruce has carried in his wallet for years. Dick showed you his collection of photos with Jason, once, when you'd visibly blanched at the mention of Jason's name.

Because, back then, you'd wanted to hate him. It was before you understood the complexities of how he died, just after you found out about the family's vigilante identities and began training as Starling. You remember witnessing Tim's quiet terror that he could never live up to Jason Todd - that he was just an inferior replacement, both as a son and as a Robin - and you wanted so, so badly to hate Jason Todd for what his legacy did to your best friend. Tim never told you, or anyone, but you knew.

The pictures Dick showed you, with tears in his eyes, humanised the person you'd only ever known as a name and shadow and an unspoken hole in the family. He was young when he died - barely older than Damian - and even on paper you could see all the light of passion and naïveté in his features; in most of the pictures, he'd been laughing or playfully scowling or eating. He had a skinny build, obviously still recovering from a childhood of poverty, but bright green eyes that had shone out all the same. 

Nothing like the built frame and white-visor eyes you see now. "I assumed you've changed since you were fifteen. You've definitely grown, at least."

"Maybe you should take a dip in a Lazarus Pit, too. You could do with a growth spurt.", Red Hood says, and you simply flip him off before heading into the bathroom.

At some point before you left the apartment earlier, Red Hood must have collected your towel from the floor and hung it on the heated towel rack - he's obviously expecting you to stay as tidy as he does. You suppose you should collect your boots from the seating area, too. It is his apartment, after all. Removing the Red Robin suit takes a little longer than it should; your fingers are numbed from the winter cold, and you're still getting used to the catches on this suit as opposed to your Starling one. You peel yourself out of the leggings with a soft sigh of contentment, step under the shower, and watch the water turn pink-tinted as someone else's blood is washed off your face.

It's hard not to obsess on Damian and the Joker, but you try to push back the thoughts until you can speak with Red Hood properly: you'll only upset yourself more, so you may as well wait until you can distract yourself with making a plan. You gingerly brush your fingers over the bruise forming at your nape, careful to avoid pressing down too hard, and find the area swollen. You'll have to take things easy for the next few days. It's not as though you can swing by the Batcave to get patched up.

As you're wrapping yourself in the warmth of the towel, headache somewhat lessened by the few moments of relaxation you've just been granted, you realise you can still hear Red Hood moving around in the living area - not retreated to his own room, as you expected. There's not a chance in hell you're walking out there in just a towel. Your body is nothing to be ashamed of, you know that much, it's strong and you're proud of it, but he's seen your face and knows everything about you and you're not about to reveal any more than you have to. You feel far too exposed around him already.

"Red-", you call through the bathroom door, hating how petulant you sound. "Red, I'm coming out, turn around."

"You kidding?"

"No, I'm not kidding - it'll be two seconds, just turn the fuck around!"

You hear him grumble. "Fine."

The thing about a head injury is that it slows down your perception - makes you miss things, if you're not paying attention - so you don't notice that his voice is smooth, rich and _real_ until you exit the bathroom.

Red Hood is still in the kitchen, at least, his back turned to you while he fusses over some food on the counters; he really is cooking for both of you, it seems, judging by the amount of food you can see spread out. That's not what surprises you. What stuns you is the fact that the mask is gone. It's sitting right there on the counter next to a carton of eggs. The rest of his gear is still on, save for the leather jacket draped over the back of the couch, but the mask is gone. You can only see the back of his head: dark hair, cropped close at the nape, but long enough that it's just able to curl at his crown. There's a small scar cutting through his hair, right behind his left ear, but the exposed skin at the back of his neck is otherwise clear and smooth. You don't know why that surprises you as much as it does.

"You're dripping water onto my carpet.", he announces - you've only been looking for a second, you swear - and you take it as a cue to pad sheepishly into your bedroom.

 _What the fuck?_ Although Red Hood's not notorious for being an asshole about keeping the mask on, like some people are, you'd hardly expected him just to pull the thing off out of nowhere like that. The very design of the mask, covering every inch of skin on his head, had been enough for you to reasonably assume he didn't want his face seen. At the very least, you'd expected it to take longer, and maybe have a little more ceremony about it. He's almost as dramatic as Bruce.

Maybe he's realised you're both in the same boat: yes, he knows your face and name, but you know his as well. You've spent the past few years living with the man who raised him. And, besides, you've showed him your own face without the domino, even walked out into the living area in a pair of pyjamas. There's no point in hiding what the other already knows, right? You find yourself hoping he'll leave the mask off, as you dry yourself and change into a plain t-shirt and pair of leggings; it's still early in the night, really, and you've got too much work to do to even consider pyjamas yet. Part of it is curiosity, you'll admit that, but it'll be comforting to see something more than bright white lenses. To feel that he's showing something a little more human.

Of course you're disappointed. "You wear a domino under the mask? Seriously?"

Red Hood is leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, as food sizzles in the frying pan. "Insurance. The mask might break one day."

For the first time, there's that dry, blunt voice, but it's matched with the smirk you've been hearing every time - surprisingly full lips, pink but chapped, just barely twisting up at the corners. He's got a strong jaw, strong nose too, the shadow of stubble dusting his cheeks, but it's all offset by a single dimple in his left cheek. Even with the domino, he looks shockingly like the Jason Todd from Dick's photographs. Older, and hardened, but no longer just a smooth red mask. 

"Is that another side effect of the Lazarus Pit?", you ask, gesturing to the single white streak of hair that curls over his forehead. "Or is it just a fashion statement?"

The smirk melts away. "I warned you about getting too cheeky with me, sweetheart."

You shrug, and move to the refrigerator to pull out a bottle of water. "What are you cooking?"

"Paella. Plenty of carbs, protein. The vegetables are fresh, too, before you start bitching.", he explains, turning to prod at the frying pan with a wooden spoon. You know exactly where he got the recipe: Alfred taught all of you a few basic dishes, always saying that you had to learn how to look after yourselves. You used to make the exact same meal for yourself and Dick, when you were camped out in shitty apartments.

"I'm not gonna bitch, Red.", you huff. "As long as it tastes good."

With that, you return to the sitting area, throw yourself down into the armchair, and pull open the laptop. You do everything you can not to look at Red Hood - and it feels strange now, calling him that, without the mask - or study his features too much. He's trying to hide it, but you can see just the barest hints of tension in his shoulders. He feels exposed. Besides, you've already been caught staring at his body (even if it was purely for the purposes of sizing him up), and you're not about to have him call you out for staring at his face too.

He remains in the kitchen as you begin to transfer the audio recording of Penguin's interrogation from your phone to the laptop. That's another one of Tim's tricks, having the suit record everything. You always said he would have made a good Oracle. As the transfer begins, you switch to another tab, and enter the name of the casino Penguin gave you.

Thankfully, it's on the near side of Atlantic City: it shouldn't take too long to drive to, and you're much less likely to be spotted there given that you won't have to pass through the city centre. The casino itself looks old, by the architecture: a little more digging confirms as much. It was built in the 1950s, and did well enough until the early 2000s, when it fell into decline and lost popularity. Nothing much from then, no information about the place - until five years ago. Bought out by a third party. Renovated, the interior floorpan completely redesigned, an entirely new staff and management. 

You call out all of this to Red, followed by your conclusion. "-so, obviously Joker - or one of his associates, or someone he was blackmailing - bought this casino and transformed it to act as a front. I mean, it's taking in a decent amount of money, so I guess he's using the profits to fund, well, whatever the fuck he gets up to. But he's definitely bringing stuff through there."

"Guns, we know that much. How about drugs?", he replies after taking a moment to digest the information. "He'd be stupid not to."

"Hey, now - as long as we're working together, at least _pretend_ you're not running half of Gotham's drug trade.", you scold, narrowing your eyes at him and watching that tiny smirk spring up again. "I could still shut down whatever you're doing. And, hang on, I'll check the security footage. It might take me a few minutes to get into the network."

You wouldn't make quite as good of an Oracle as Tim, but you do have the advantage of having trained with Barbara for six months. She taught you to take your time and cover your tracks well, even if it takes a little longer - you're confident, once you break into the network, that you're invisible. _A ghost_ , she'd called it.

Red Hood appears with two plates, placing one in front of you before throwing himself onto the couch. "I take it you're in."

You can't help a slightly self-pleased grin as you spin the laptop towards him. "Yep. Good news, I can see all the security camera logs going back three months. Bad news, the Joker's probably not using it as his physical base. It's probably one of the main bases of operations, but he's not there."

"How'd you figure that one out?", he says, and one thick eyebrow cocks slightly over the domino mask. You hide the widening of your smile through a mouthful of food; you don't like to be too cocky, but it's totally fair for you to be proud of yourself for this. That security system was complex.

"It's not a self-contained system - oh, shit, this stuff is really good, you're definitely making this again - anyway, normally security footage is just kept on a hard drive. This stuff is uploaded onto a network, though, which means it can be accessed from outside the building - that's how I managed to get it. It makes the footage less secure, so the only reason anyone would do it-"

"Would be to access the data remotely.", Red Hood finishes with a nod. You scowl at him again, a little put out by the interruption, and he actually pulls an expression that vaguely resembles apology.

You enjoy another few mouthfuls of food before continuing. "I think almost everything else is kept on hard drives, though. That, or he's hired someone better than me to protect the data. We'll have to take a trip to Atlantic City and access the computers from inside the casino. There'll be clues about where he is, at least - but the main server is there, too. I might be able to see the list of locations where people are accessing the network from. So, if we're lucky, we can get his location."

It's a long shot, but it's a solid lead, and you'd rather look on the bright side than fall down the rabbit hole of negativity. At least this way, you could conceivably find Joker within a few weeks: this way, Damian isn't as likely to get involved. Damian will be safe. He's going to be okay.

"Good job. We'll drive over tomorrow."

"Do you have an apartment there, too?", you ask. It's half-joking, but you wouldn't be surprised. Red might have even more safehouses across the country than Bruce does.

He shakes his head. "No. The place is a shithole. We'll have to get a hotel - you gonna pay with daddy's credit card?"

"Chill out, Red.", you warn. It was uncalled for, an obvious jab, and you see his expression shift subtly at the terseness in your tone. You're enjoying being able to see his face. "I have my own money. I've earned my own keep for years."

He grins. "Then you can pay for a nice room. Drinks from the mini-fridge, too."

"Absolutely not. I did all the work today - I'm not letting you get drunk while I do all the work tomorrow, as well. I'm not! You can stay sober and suffer like everyone else."

"You're too young to drink. You'd be breaking the law.", he replies, voice rising to become just barely singsong on the last word. It's frustrating you more than you'd readily admit, the way Red's seemingly so calm and unbothered by tonight's events - you know that he has no connection to Damian, no reason to be as upset as you are, but you would expect him to be even a the tiniest bit more worked up. Dick, for example, would have been completely thrown by the mere mention of a child in danger.

But Red Hood isn't Dick Grayson. He's calmer, more calculated, and much more dry. "You're legally dead. I think you're breaking the law whenever you do _anything_." Something about his manner is reminiscent of Tim; less playful sarcasm and more bluntness, but clearly witty enough to keep up with the banter. There's obviously a part of him that craves to challenge others.

"Do I look dead to you, sweetheart? Only reason I'm legally like that, is because your daddy would never bother with the paperwork to bring me back."

You turn your eyes back to the laptop, hoping to sift through the security footage of the loading docks at the back of the casino. "I told you to stop calling Bruce that - just, you know, stop with all that shit in general, please."

There's a dark chuckle that you don't grace with a reaction. "You can call it that, but we both know it's the truth."

"Stop it-"

"I bet he acts like a father to you, doesn't he? Well, acted - I bet you're dead to him now. Just like me, huh, little bird? Tossed away-"

"Shut up.", you hiss. You don't even look at him, knowing you'll snap if you do, but you see him react to the venom in your tone from the corner of your eye. "You died. I left. He did _not_ throw us away."

As much as you try to keep your tone fairly level - hard enough to get him to back down, but not enough to make him too angry - you know that your jaw tightens. Bruce is a deeply, deeply flawed man, but he loves you, loves all of you, with every inch of his soul; he loved Jason Todd, and he never stopped. You can, in a way, understand Red Hood's anger. There's no doubt that the Joker should have died for what he did. But that goes against everything Bruce has ever fought for, and Red Hood must know that deep down, he must. There's no excuse for him to be this much of an asshole.

Red doesn't answer - verbally, at least. You sense his muscles tense, his posture stiffen, and maybe he's considering throwing you to the floor again but you don't really give a fuck. The evident annoyance dissipates after a moment, though - he's more level-headed than Dick, you're realising that much - and he settles back into the couch with a small huff. The lack of reply is reply enough.

"...Anyway-", you start, after a few minutes of scanning the footage. "Look at this."

You shove the laptop towards him before the words even leave your mouth: you've just stumbled across something almost as concerning as The Killing Joke itself. His brow furrows as he takes in the screen. "They're laughing gas canisters."

Hundreds of them, all being unloaded into the back of the casino. "I thought so. I've never dealt with it in person, but surely he only needs, like, a few dozen canisters to fill a pretty large room. What the hell is he doing with that many?"

Red Hood taps at the keyboard as you speak. "There are similar trucks coming in every week. He's got thousands of them in there."

Why would he need thousands of canisters of laughing gas? That's enough to target thousands of people, if not more - he's stockpiling them for something big, that much is for sure. You scan your brain for any possibilities, and the one you land on has chills running down your spine and into your stomach.

"He's obviously stockpiling them for something big, right? And his big plans are always focused around Batman - this won't be any different, this stuff is obviously going to end up in Gotham."

He runs a hand through the white curl at the front of his hair, and slides the laptop back to you. "You think he's trying to take out Gotham?"

"I think so, yeah - Batman's a protector of the people, right? He's probably going to try to wipe out the city. Well, as much as he can. I think he's planning to target the people of Gotham with the laughing gas, so Batman and Robin and all the rest of them are drawn out, and then pick off the people closest to Batman. He's always been obsessed with trying to break him."

"Not a fucking chance is he stealing that away from me.", Red Hood says. It's curt and harsh and it brings back the tightness in your chest - you agreed to this, you can stop him slandering Bruce but you can't stop him from hurting him - Red Hood wants Joker dead, but he wants Bruce Wayne to pay. You agreed to it. You can't stop him.

At least it's making him even more hungry for Joker's blood. At least it'll keep Damian safe. "We need to find a way to get rid of the laughing gas tomorrow. It's way too risky to leave it there for him - he's got way too much stored there, he could move on Gotham at any time. I might be able to find a formula to neutralise the toxins, but-"

"Fuck that. Let's blow it up.", he drawls.

You look at him incredulously. "Blow it up? That'll destroy the casino and everything in it! We need evidence from that place, it'll be invaluable. That's without even mentioning the damage the explosion will do to the city."

"You got a better plan? You can't neutralise thousands of canisters. We can get in, take the hard drives - maybe have a little chat with some of his guys. Then contact the city, tell them there's a gas leak in the casino, and they need to clear the surrounding blocks."

"There's no way we can guarantee everyone's safety, though, Red. Someone might get missed in the evacuation.", you counter. You've got next to no faith in the city police; you can't trust them to get everyone to safety, and you can't risk being seen evacuating civilians yourself if you want to remain under Oracle's radar.

The bright white lenses of his domino flash as he turns his gaze to meet yours, totally level. "People should be smart enough to get themselves out, if the police can't manage it. But the risk is worth it - we'll be guaranteeing the safety of thousands in Gotham. You have to look at the bigger picture, little bird."

He's right, but you don't like it. The chances of anyone getting hurt in the blast are slim - you can figure out the physics of the blast, you imagine, and try to contain it as much as you can. Still, though, you can't help but think of an old woman, trapped in her apartment and physically unable to escape, or a man who doesn't have a phone and misses the evacuation alert. Are you ready to sacrifice them, for your own city?

"Eat the rest of your food.", Red Hood says. You glance down, and realise you've only half-cleared the plate: you've lost your appetite, really, but his tone leaves little room for argument. You need to get some calories into you, anyway, given that your stress levels probably have your metabolism running through the roof.

You speak through a mouthful. "I don't like it. I really don't like it, Red."

"You're going to be fucked when I have you kill someone for real." He sounds excited. It’s subtle but it’s there, just the barest undercurrent to the otherwise smooth waters. You think you can guess what’s running through his mind. _I’m going to corrupt you, little bird._

“The deal was to kill Joker. I never said I’d be killing anyone else - I’m not like that. I thought you’d know that, given how much you’ve watched me since you came back.”

He's watched all of you, your every move, but he doesn't seem fazed in the slightest by your mention of it. "Why do you want him dead? Because he killed your boyfriend?"

You suck in a deep breath. "He was my best friend - and no, it's not just revenge - he deserves to die. If he dies, hundreds of lives will be saved. He's too dangerous to be left alive anymore."

"Exactly.", Red Hood agrees, with a smug nod that makes you feel like you're being hunted down by a predator. "So, if we come across someone else dangerous, we're gonna put them down too."

"People aren't animals, Red, Jesus.", you mutter.

He leans forward to prop his forearms on his knees: it only emphasises the broadness of his frame. "You'd be surprised. Some people are worse than animals."

You remember the first sex trafficker you dealt with, the way he'd spat at your feet and said, _you'd go for a nice price, if only you'd take that ugly mask off_ \- you remember the first time you locked up a man for beating his son, and holding the child behind you as his father had shouted and he had cowered - you remember finding Tim, a bird with its wings clipped, a bright red smile smeared across his lips and blood dripping from the hole in his stomach.

"Some people are, yeah. But I'll only do what's necessary, okay? Only if it's going to protect people from getting hurt.", you agree, quietly, looking right at the white domino lenses. Red's smirk grows slightly, but it becomes less smug and more pleased, proud, almost - he looks like Bruce for just a fraction of a second. It's like you've just managed to hit the bullseye with your first shuriken, instead of having just agreed to murder people.

He holds your gaze. "That's exactly what I'm doing, too."

"I know that-"

"You know it, but you don't accept it. You look down on me anyway.", he interjects, waving a scarred finger at you, and you swallow through the lump in your throat. You don't look down on him - you don't, you can respect how he's brought crime under control in Gotham - but he can't blame you for being reluctant to kill, right? He's trigger-happy, he's dangerous, and you'd like to think you're not. Then again, maybe you are looking down on him, with that mindset; are you really any better? He shoots sex traffickers, and you break pedophile's spines. It's all the same fight.

"I'm still getting used to the idea of killing, I guess."

Red Hood leans back into the couch, and grabs the laptop again to pull it into his lap. "It gets easier. You know you're doing the right thing. Protecting people who can't protect themselves - like the kid."

"Damian, you mean?", you ask, and when he nods you huff out a small laugh. "Trust me, Damian's perfectly capable of protecting himself. He'll be the best out of all of us, one day. He's just too young, you know? He gets cocky sometimes, or doesn't think everything through, or lets his emotions get the better of him. He's not ready to go up against something as insane as Joker."

"Sounds like Grayson. I'm glad you didn't get his hot-headedness. I would've shot you by now, if you had." The words spill from his lips quietly, offhandedly - he's distracted by the laptop, and he's obviously not really thinking about what he says. So, this time, Dick's name isn't said venomously or disdainfully or seething with anger. It's not said with anything, really, and it flows smoothly with the baritone of his voice. It sounds like someone simply mentioning a friend, or an ally: a brother, maybe. Jason Todd might still be in there somewhere.

You don't answer. You don't want to risk him realising what he just said; anyway, the mention of Dick and Damian has you eager to check their locations. The security cameras of Blüdhaven may belong to Barbara right now (you're not stupid enough to get caught in that network, while she's watching), but the family has always underestimated the power of Twitter. You've taken measures to hide your presence, knowing that a teenager with a phone can be just as dangerous as a security camera, but Bruce and Dick are just bordering on being too old to really understand the phenomenon of social media. Damian thinks he's above it all.

Dick would always get annoyed when you and Tim called him a boomer, and Bruce just quietly accepted it, but neither of them ever got around to learning how to work Twitter - God, the boys are so, so stupid. A quick search on your phone shows that social media is lit up with news about the family: _nightwing's back in blüdhaven, batman and robin are here!, just saw the bat in the business district omfg_ , and more coming in every second. They don't seem to have found your trail, and they're far from the apartment, but they've clearly been interrogating people. The information may not lead directly to you and Red Hood, but it could easily lead to Joker, and you'll have to be wary of your paths crossing at any point.

"What are you looking at? Just stuff for tomorrow's adventure?", you speak up after about ten minutes. 

"'Adventure'", he repeats, rolling the word around his mouth. "That's a funny way of putting it. You’re cute."

You fake moving to kick him, then swing to your feet and take the plates into the kitchen - he cooked, it's only fair that you clean, you suppose. "Fuck off. Don’t call me that. I’ll take pretty - because I am - but don’t call me cute.”

“You’re _adorable_ , sweetheart-”, he calls, singsong and mocking, but he brandishes the laptop so you can view the screen. “Building schematics for the casino. He changed the floorplan when he bought it, added extra insulation to the walls. He made sure an explosion wouldn’t take the whole place down.”

The water of the taps runs cold - you don’t imagine it’ll be long until pipes start to freeze. “What, you mean self-contained units? Like the ones on the Titanic?”

"How the fuck am I meant to know? Never watched it. Don't give a fuck about boats.", he replies.

You scoff. "You're uncultured - that film was a cultural phenomenon. Anyway, they designed the ship so that if one compartment flooded, the water couldn't spread to the other sections. I'm assuming that's what Joker's done - it makes sense, if he's storing flammable gas - so we'll need to coordinate blasts in each rooms. I guess you've got a friend who can help us with the explosives."

"No need. I keep C4 in my weapons cabinet."

"You keep explosives in your _bedroom?_ ", you gape. The water is finally beginning to run warm, and you're thankful that Red's invested in an apartment with a decent water heater. He's surprisingly organised and self-sufficient - more than Dick and Tim ever have been, you're sure of that much - and it seems out of place for him to keep an explosive with the rest of his things. Of course, C4 is relatively safe, and the chances of it being set off accidentally are next to zero, but you don't think you'll sleep well knowing there are explosives in the next room.

Red chuckles. "I'm full of surprises, sweetheart. You'll see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so reader realises jason's pretty. what else is new. the next chapter should be up,,, soon-ish? i'm getting back into a more regular schedule r.i.p lockdown, so hopefully my writing schedule will be more regular and less whenever-inspiration-strikes


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